


Brutal Business

by walkwithursus



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Slut Shaming, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-15 12:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: After Doublebookedklok, Charles is working to repair his relationships with Dethklok's members. Nathan, not wanting to further burden their manager, withdraws to allow Charles more time with Toki, Skwisgaar, Pickles and Murderface. It won't be long before the neglect becomes intolerable. Metalocalypse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter has multiple perspective changes, but following chapters will not. Thank you for reading!

Dethrobot

_Tss tss tss tss . . ._

The sound of the cymbals hissed, and the air shivered. The speakers lining the back of the stage amplified the tiny taps they really were, and they became powerful. Commanding the attention of the swarm, the pit, which screamed and thrashed and moved, crashing against itself, the many black waves of an ocean. A single-minded crowd, where the individual abandoned himself and became everything and everyone all at once. For those seconds, the hi-hat was almighty and ringing. And then it drowned.

From the front left of the stage roared an animal, and from stage right, its trainer. The slow, stubborn growls of the rhythm guitar were accompanied- coaxed- from the thoughtful, consolidating chords of the lead, together creating a difficult blend, a complex and violent myriad of notes. The sound was heavy. Dark, thick, palpable in the hot air of the packed amphitheater. Perfect conditions for the newest song, Nathan thought. Though the circumstances of this particular concert weren't altogether favorable, nothing seemed outwardly different. The same packed crowd, the same blinding lights. It was hard to tell the difference between one stage and the next. All the same gear and the same men on it. Unchanging. The familiar, deafening sounds of his band playing their instruments.

Nathan was so concentrated on the sounds of the others he nearly missed his entrance. Pickles' robust 6/8 changed dramatically into a split second 4/4, catching the vocalist in his thoughts and forcing him to jump right in to the next time signature. He raised the microphone to his mouth and heard his own gravelly voice pounding back at him from all around. A shrill noise floated up to Nathan from the faceless crowd before him and he squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on the feeling of a successful song and show.

He looked to his right. Toki bore down hard on the neck of his guitar, unblinking, tongue poking out between his teeth as the melody became increasingly faster and trickier. His face, smeared with concert paint, was slightly contorted. Nathan could feel the paint on his own face starting to flake off as the sweat rolled down his temples. He lifted his free hand and pulled it across his damp hairline, releasing the last few lines of the first course repetition with a thunderous growl.

The new song had come to him easily. Honestly, it had practically written itself. All the anger and resentment he'd had pent up inside had festered, and instead of taking it out on the source, he'd channeled it into a new song, in fact, several new songs. He, Skwisgaar and Pickles had been cooped up in the recording studio for days, devising innovatively brutal instrumentals to accompany the lyrics that tore hot and fast from his throat. It hadn't even seemed a chore to them. There was no pressure from the label just yet. The only thing fueling them had been creativity. Creativity, a shared anger, and copious amounts of food and alcohol.

Thankfully none of the new songs included any of the whiny, childish angst the band members all possessed at that moment. The remnants of the worthless feelings that had nearly started World War III had turned inward for Nathan. Though still feeling neglected and unloved, he had masked it fairly well, unlike Murderface. The peevish bass player was still causing problems for Charles. Nathan had started to avoid confrontation with the manager at all, much different from his usual behavior. While struggling not to be a problem for the man, he found himself resenting him all the more the further withdrawn he became. He hated going unnoticed, especially since Charles had tried to connect with the other band members since the initial dispute.

For the most part it seemed as though everyone besides himself and Murderface were back to normal, though to say Murderface's attitude with Charles was unnatural was a lie. When Charles had suggested playing an apology concert, nobody had raised any objections. Nathan had sat sullen and quiet, almost counting on Pickles to be the one to speak out against the idea. He'd shot a glare at him right after the kiss-ass praised Charles' brilliant new plan, and left immediately after the meeting to retire for the night. Now, playing the ridiculous concert, he felt angrier than ever at the manager.

When would it be his turn to pal around with Charles? Nathan wondered, if he kept silent, would he ever get his chance? He found it highly unlikely. With the amount of attention the rest of the band required, and his decision to take a step back and try his absolute hardest not to give Charles anymore reason to hate him, he was becoming increasingly ignored. Though he no longer felt the anger from his manager, he was no longer receiving any attention either, good or bad. This troubled him. Nathan usually felt simple, easily contented, though now it seemed as though all the pleasures he usually indulged in were frivolous, and nothing was good enough. Sometimes he wondered if he was depressed, but he deduced depression was empty, and consisted of a lack of feeling. He, on the contrary, was feeling too many emotions at once, and instead of expressing them the way he knew he ought to, he stoppered them and tried his best to pretend he felt nothing when he saw Charles talking privately with Pickles, or smiling at Toki. No, he felt nothing at all. At least not about his stupid manager.

All the feeling went towards the music, which seemed well received so far. Though it was doubtful anyone in the crowd had a clue what he was saying Nathan enunciated his heart out. His lyrics, painstakingly crafted, expressed the feelings he couldn't. Naturally some bits and pieces could be distinguished among the low, trembling roar of his vocals, mostly relating to blood, pain and hate. Though typical, Nathan thought they seemed much more real than any other time he might have used such concepts. Before it had just sounded metal, and good. Now he really felt it all. If he weren't so drunk, he might have realized this was one of his best performances yet.

Not that anyone would be proud of him. Charles probably wasn't even there.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As far as apology concerts went, this one was easily the smoothest... and as far as performances went, this one was easily one of the best. Charles watched the boys for a few more moments, more than a little reluctant to leave with over half the set still left to be played. It was rare indeed for the manager and CFO of Dethklok to leave mid-performance, especially one with so much riding on it. This was the first in a string of apology concerts, spanning from Tokyo all the way west to Hawaii. This one in particular was in retribution for calling on Godzilla and destroying half the city. The one tomorrow night was for calling on Mothra to banish Godzilla and in the process destroying the other half of the city. It had cost a metric fuck-ton of money to get Tokyo back on its feet, but Charles had cut back on his brandy budget for nearly six months to see that it did. It was no secret amongst Klokateers that little meant more to Charles than watching Dethklok perform, but they all knew sometimes business had to be done.

Really, he should have learned his lesson from the double-booking incident that had occurred not three months ago, but he'd been sure to cover all of his bases prior to okaying this meeting. He'd had some drinks with Pickles yesterday, a nice, constructive chat with Skwisgaar about how it was okay to not have a father later that night. The day before, he'd talked William out of an anal piercing (god only knew what that entailed) and suggested the purchase of another monster truck instead. And just this morning he'd seen to it that Deddybear's seams had been fixed and reinforced with the strongest, most brutal thread he could find. The only one he hadn't spent any particular alone-time with was Nathan. For the most part, the front man had been staying out of trouble, and while Charles knew that a quiet Nathan was a devious Nathan, he figured it was best to give the vocalist the benefit of the doubt. It was usually Nathan that complained about him nagging so if he wasn't doing anything too ridiculous, what reason did Charles have to check up on him? Admittedly, he was beginning to miss the stupid texts.

So with a heavy sigh, Charles boarded his private Hatredcopter to attend to the business that couldn't wait. He was in the process of negotiations with Sinful Glaze about their upcoming Dethklok-themed nail-lacquer collection and for some reason, their marketing executive wasn't available any time but right now. Normally, he'd have just let the deal fall through. He was Charles Foster Ofdensen, manager and CFO of Dethklok. People rearranged their schedules to accommodate _him,_ but this deal had special importance. Totally unbeknownst to Nathan, his favored nail polish company had gone under four years ago. This hadn't been a problem until now because Charles had the foresight to buy up as many bottles of "Star-Shine Black Matte" #4366 as there were available on the planet. In four years, Nathan Explosion managed to go through 10,000 bottles and now, on the last two in existence, Charles was scrambling to replace the favored nail lacquer within a brand still in business. Sinful Glaze had agreed to reproduce the formula under a different name: "The Blackest Explosion Matte" along with four other colors hi-lighting the rest of Dethklok. There would be "Fuzzy Pink Electric Wartooth", "Pickles' Liver Green", "Woad Skwigelf Blue", and "Let Them Eat Murderface Red Velvet Cake." The other four were limited edition. Nathan's would stay within the main collection so that this situation could be avoided in the future. All in all, it would be a successful and wholly unappreciated gesture. But that was fine. Nathan Explosion's job was not to appreciate; it was to be a metal god.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Speaking of metal gods, Skwisgaar was proving once again why he was the reigning lord of guitar. Bras and panties littered the ground around his feet, but the Swede hardly had enough of his faculties about him to question how the females in the audience had managed to get their undergarments two hundred feet in the air where he was standing on the giant robot set piece's shoulder, playing like he hadn't played in...maybe four hours. Things were going well enough as far as he could tell. Toki didn't sound horrendous, hell even Murderface wasn't making him want to jump off the stage quite as badly as usual. Pickles seemed present and Nathan's vocals were the perfect degree of indecipherable. The only things missing from what Skwisgaar could tell were grandma-sized panties in the pile around his feet, but that he figured he could remedy later. Right now there was a concert to finish.

As the concert pressed on and started winding to a close, Nathan felt an odd sense of calm come over him. The show had gone really well, as good as he'd hoped. All the new songs had received deafening cheer, and his bandmates had done well in accompanying his vocals. In particular, Toki, who had kept up with Skwisgaar almost all night, despite the tricky fingering the new songs required for some of the choruses. Nathan had heard Toki practicing a few of Skwisgaar's solos before the show, and had to admit they sounded good. When Nathan looked over at Toki he was frowning, but he imagined the rhythm guitarist felt good about the set too.

Looking down at the faceless crowd of people from his perch in the mouth of the robot, Nathan delivered the last chorus repetition of 'Slaughter-in-Law' and straightened up. He'd been crouched down for quite awhile, and stumbled slightly. His boot caught on a stray cord poking out from the lining of the robot's glowing, multicolored teeth. From above him, Nathan heard Pickles start the last song, quickly followed by the guitarists. The cord was now wrapped around the singer's ankle, and he tugged at it ferociously until it came off, kicking at a tooth in the process. Nathan started his vocals as he watched the pointed, flashing fang cascade down the robot set piece's body. He peered over the edge just in time to watch it smash into the crowd, but as the other teeth started falling Nathan stepped back. It appeared the teeth were all connected. The cord they all shared snapped, casting a shower of electrical sparks onto the audience. Nathan shuddered. His dislike of dentists, and all things having to do with teeth was creeping up on him. He closed his eyes and gripped the microphone tighter as he continued the song.

Wires and cable were now snapping all around him, and more set pieces were falling with each passing second. Nathan tried not to pay attention as the entire robot shook. Something had hit the foundation of the structure although what exactly he was not sure. Another shower of sparks rained down on the crowd, though this time much larger. The small moat of gasoline that had been designed around the robot's feet was now a blazing ring of fire, and the smoke poured into the mouth where Nathan was. It was becoming harder to breathe, but Nathan coughed his lines out anyway.

Pickles, whose spot rested in the clear dome of the robot's would-be cranium, felt the robot shake, but was unable to see what was going on. Although rattled, he continued on playing. The screams from down below grew louder as he played harder. Amidst the deafening noise a louder groan could be heard, like metal bending. Quite suddenly the dark sky outside was covered up by a thick grey plate, which curved around the ceiling of the dome until nothing was visible. The robot was shaking harder. The lights in Pickles' dome flickered and went out. He could hear nothing through the thick metal casing that covered him now, but he could still feel the world around him shaking. Assuming no one could hear him if he couldn't hear them, Pickles tossed his drumsticks down and reached to grab a beer from next to the kick-drum. The instant he straightened back up he felt a back to his stool where there had not been one before. From the back, straps grew and belted the drummer in, rendering him immobile.

"Ah, damn it," Pickles said, as he resigned himself to the mercy of the Klokateers for rescue.

Down below, Nathan heard the pounding of the drums cease, followed by the absence of the guitars on either shoulder platform of the giant robot. Exasperated and coughing, the singer threw down his microphone as a thick metal door grew down over the mouth of the robot, trapping him inside. Two armed Klokateers appeared on either side of him.

"My Lord, please follow us to the evacuation slide," stated one, as the other gestured gently to the back of the chamber. Where the robot's throat would have been, a large tunnel had appeared.

"What's going on?" Nathan questioned, not resisting as they escorted him to the mouth of the tunnel. The masked men neglected to answer.

"Keep your legs together and your arms crossed over your chest," said the one from before. Nathan did so and clambered into the steel chute. On his way down, he wondered whether Charles would meet him at the bottom and explain everything. Maybe he'd even apologize for neglecting Nathan the past few days. Whether Nathan would forgive him or not, was another matter entirely. Probably he wouldn't. Ofdensen clearly had no trouble letting him suffer for long, why not return the favor? A taste of his own medicine, Nathan thought ruefully as the slide opened and dumped him onto the floor. Awkwardly he regained his feet, but before he was really able to gauge his surroundings he felt a bump against his chest. Toki had wrapped his arms around Nathan's midsection and was speaking. The disoriented singer only caught the end of it.

"-worried abouts you when you weren'ts here! I heards you coughing into the microphone-"

"I'm _fine,_ Toki," Nathan snapped, as the watery-eyed guitarist stepped back. The members of Dethklok stood in what appeared to be a reinforced steel box, from which no outside noise could be heard. A handful of Klokateers were rushing around, muttering into earpieces and whispering to one another. It seemed everyone else was present, though Charles remained unseen, much to Nathan's chagrin. Had he really been counting on the manager's presence so much? Why was it so important to him that he was there? Perhaps to avoid introspection Nathan began to speculate what could be keeping him, especially during a crisis.

"My Lords, the helicopter has landed. Please follow me outside." A Klokateer had approached. Sounding slightly more accusatory than necessary, Nathan blurted his question out.

"Where's Charles?"  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"You're very exacting, Mr. Ofdensen," Katarina Gorgorovich, the marketing executive of Sinful Glaze, murmured huskily over the lip of her wine glass, "I like that in a man."

Charles didn't look up from the product design photos. He knew what he'd see and he didn't need embarrassment layered onto the moderate anxiety that thrummed beneath his skin. He should have received a check-in text from #2323 five minutes ago. There were no TVs in a high-end establishment like this, and Charles wished, not for the first time since the meeting had begun, that Ms. Gorgorovich hadn't insisted on the extremely intimate setting. He just needed to focus, look over the plans, approve the final designs, then he could leave, get back to what mattered. "The, ah, artwork on Skwisgaar's blue is looking much better. I'm glad we went with the elven script rather than the Nordic." Charles chanced a glance upward. Coquettishness still dominated the executive's expression, but her eyes were shrewd. "The rabbit on Toki's pink is perfect. I like it on top of the cap as well. Can we see about doing that with all the colors? Nathan's can wait. That, ah, has to be in stores-"

"Next week, yes, Mr. Ofdensen...I'm aware," she sighed, somewhat resignedly and pointed to a date on one of the forms between them. "The Blackest Explosion Matte will be on shelves next Friday."

Charles' gaze flickered from the designs to the date, to Ms. Gorgorovich, and back to the designs again before nodding. "That's ah, very good. I appreciate your diligence. I think the changes I've suggested to the red and the green are all tha-" Charles' dethphone buzzed loudly in his pocket and the CFO felt his veins turn to ice when he read the words 'Emergency Line'. "Excuse me, I have to take this."

He lifted the phone to his ear. Red alert claxons were distinct behind labored breathing. Charles waved a hand and almost instantly, a Gear was heading to the Host's kiosk to secure a check. He knew three others were on their way back to the roof, preparing the Hatredkopter.

-"Ah, yes?"  
-"Master Ofdensen, there has been an incident."  
Charles' eyes narrowed. "Are the boys safe?"  
-"Yes, sir. They have been evacuated. Master Explosion has inquired of your whereabouts."  
The irony of this situation was not lost on him. "Tell them I'm on my way," he sighed, and ended the call.

Katarina appeared unruffled as he turned back to the table and Charles had to be at least a little grateful for that. She had shuffled the papers around during the call and a pen was waiting for him. "Sign there and there, initial this page, and sign once more there."

He did as he was instructed and stood to leave. "I'm very sorry to cut this so short, Ms. Gorogorvich."

She shrugged, and took an impassive sip of her wine. "Duty calls, Mr. Ofdensen. Oh, here," she reached into her purse and drew out a bottle of The Blackest Explosion Matte. Charles caught it mid-stride and tucked it into his coat pocket, giving her a genuinely fond wave on his way out. "Send her something nice," he instructed the gear at his side.

-"Yes, sir."  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"My lord, Master Ofdensen was occupied offsite on a business meeting." The Gear supplied.

At the Klokateers' words Nathan felt his concern for Charles' whereabouts dissipate. A business meeting, that was the big deal engagement that was keeping the band manager from his duty when he was most needed? When a crisis was going on, when the lives of he and his fellow band mates were in danger, Ofdensen had the nerve to be 'occupied?' The singer felt an icy trickle of disgust run down his spine, and he held in a shiver, instead folding his thick arms over his chest. With the way Charles had been acting toward him recently, Nathan felt particularly sensitive to the man's absence. It almost felt like a personal offense, and it bothered him a great deal. It was as he'd thought earlier; he'd played one of his best shows to date, and the manager wasn't even there to appreciate his hard work, or talent, or the fact that he'd slaved over this music day and night for weeks. Instead, Charles decided to skip out on the show to have a meeting with some business person. Like it couldn't wait? How heartless.

"Pfft, who even cares where the robot is?" Murderface grumbled petulantly as he tromped beside the rest of his bandmates towards the helicopter. "He's probably busy crunching his robot numbers and doesn't even care that we almost died out there. Also- who decided I had to stand on the robot's fucking codpiece? That's just schiick."

With his own corpse-paint smeared face quite impassive Nathan found it easy to blend into the conversation around him, listening and silently agreeing, but saying nothing on the debate. He heard Pickles mimic the word 'robot' after Murderface, and found himself mulling the concept over in his head as they were ushered out the door and to the awaiting Hatredkopter.

Skwisgaar gave the bassist a bored look as he strapped himself into the helicopter. "Its was yous, Murderface. Yous saids 'Thats robots better have a codpiece what is a million miles long sos that I can stands on it.' Do yous remember that, Tokis? He was really really drunk and mades Ofdensens change the designs plans."

Murderface looked thoughtful for a moment. "Oh, yeah...I remember." He took a moment to affix the helmet with the built-in headset over his large triangle-shaped hair before the aircraft took off. "Testing...testing. Can you guys hear me? Okay. Good. Look, all I'm saying is that Ofdensen has _got_ to learn to control us better when we're drunk. Doesn't he know that we can't possibly be held responsible for the stuff we say we want when we're fucked up? Like, as our CFO or whatever, isn't it his job to take responsibility for our shitty drunk decisions?"

-"Yeah, thats a good points. He should knows by now that we ams irrecspo-irreecsponsibles when we ams drunk. Maybe we brings that up at next band meetings…"

As the Hatredkopter took off Nathan coughed violently, his vision bleary when the attack stopped. He wasn't sure how much smoke he'd breathed in, but his lungs stung enough to make the harness painful to wear. Thankfully no one seemed to pay much attention to him except Pickles, who gave him a hard pat on the back and continued talking as though nothing had happened.

"The dethphones are a drunk invention," Pickles was saying, "and look how great they are." He pulled the spiked contraption out of his pocket and jabbed Murderface in the side with it. "It doubles as a weapon."

"I still hates it," Toki interjected, his own dethphone in hand. "Maybe we shoulds brings it up at the next bands meeting."

"What, getting rid of the dethphone? No way," Pickles scoffed.

"No! Gettsing Ofdensen to stops us from makings bad decisions whens we're drunk."

"Like that'll ever happen," Pickles replied. "Besides, Murderface makes bad decisions all the time."

-"Forgive me for intruding, My Lords." A Klokateer cut in after a few moments of steely silence. "Master Ofdensen has informed me that he is en route to the Dethsub. Our ETA is five minutes. That is all."

Five minutes.

Nathan shifted irritably in the harness. A bubble, more than just the pain in his lungs, had formed inside his chest. He felt angry at Ofdensen. The idea of having to face their manager when the helicopter landed was an unpleasant one, thought it was unavoidable. Already the whirring of the blades above was slowing as the helicopter prepared for descent.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Charles looked at his watch then down at the bottle of black nail polish in his lap.

-"ETA five minutes, sir."  
He shook the bottle and carefully twisted it open. The liquid didn't reflect the red of the overhead lights much. Of course, he'd have to see it in daylight to be absolutely certain, but from here it looked promising. He swiped the brush over his thumbnail, once, twice, three times, checking viscosity, opacity, matte, dry time.  
His eyes returned to his watch.

-"ETA three minute, sir."  
Charles swiped a finger over the lacquered nail. Dry in two minutes. That was an improvement. Staring at his nail, his thoughts drifted to Nathan. He wasn't certain he wanted to explain exactly why he hadn't been present during the latter half of the concert. It defeated the purpose of making the transition between polishes so seamless. Also (and he couldn't help feeling at least a little pathetic for this), he wanted Nathan to notice the change on his own, to inquire out of curiosity. Telling him 'I did this for you,' felt desperate. Charles shook his head. Desperate...He was the manager and CFO of Dethklok. It was his job to do anything and everything for the boys, for his masters. He was #1, after all. The first Gear in the Klok. Desperation was a part of everything a Klokateer did. He should revel in it.

-"ETA one minute, sir. We have visual on Hatredcopter 1. In the meantime, we are cleared for landing on helipad 2."  
As the helicopter landed, Charles wasted no time in removing himself from the harness. He jumped onto the landing pad and waited beside the other helipad for the band's helicopter.

He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the ridges of the brand hidden beneath his crisp white collar, and steeled himself. The boys needed him. He would serve. And if he kept this one thing hidden because he wanted something other than Nathan's ire all the time...well, it was only because he was a Klokateer and Klokateers were desperate.

As they landed, Charles tucked both hands into his coat pockets. The wind created by the whirring blades of the Hatredcopter blew his tie violently sideways and his hair out of the neat slick. He could tell his appearance was beginning to match his feelings a bit too well, but he schooled his expression to stone and waited to be of service to his boys.

As Hatredcopter 1 settled gently onto the helipad, for a moment he imagined the heavy doors releasing a torrent of blood and viscera. He imagined wading through the mess and finding Skwisgaar's head buried under a mass of Pickles' dreadlocks. He imagined the crushing weight of his failure, the endless bleak spiral of his life without Dethklok- and was momentarily overcome. The pneumatic hiss of the doors brought him from his imaginary perdition back to reality. Pickles and Toki were the first to reach him and Charles was thankful. They usually took a few moments to be awed by a situation before making accusations.

"-what happened, the thing just started shakin' and stuff was freakin' out."

"I nearly fells off the robot!" Toki added, his tone accusatory.

...Maybe not this time.

"I'm very sorry, boys," he started slowly, waiting for Murderface and Nathan to join them. "I'm glad you're all safe."

"Why weren't you there? Where were you that was so important?" Pickles demanded.

Charles looked at his boys, at Nathan's blank face, and felt shame prickle up the sides of his neck. He served Dethklok. It was _his_ hubris, his _desperation_ that put them all in this situation. Still, the entire endeavor would be for naught if he just announced it now….On the other hand, what right did he have to vie for the favor of one master when he belonged to all of them equally?

It wasn't favor he sought, Charles told himself. It was just...not hatred. He wanted Nathan's...not hatred. He shuddered internally. Yeah, that was a terrible lie. Pushing past disappointment and that constant desperation, he felt himself replying evenly, "I, ah, was in a meeting with a marketing executive. She was unable to meet at any other time and we had a deadline for some merch to be in stores next week-"

"Yeah right, you were probably just trying to get laid. Talk about poor priority management…" Murderface cut in. He made a show of limping pathetically towards the Dethsub's entry hatch, grumbling his confusion about robots and boners. When he reached the open hatch, he immediately started climbing in, limp miraculously gone. "Come on, guys. Let's go in and talk to someone who actually cares about our safety-Jack Daniels."

"Yeahs, Jacks Daniels cares!" Skwisgaar agreed, following the bassist. "Waits, who ams Jacks Daniels?"

Charles let out a sigh of mingled relief and frustration. For once Murderface's short attention span and histrionics were not fucking him, but mismanaged priorities? He didn't think he'd ever felt this brand of simultaneous indignation and contrition before. He stepped aside to allow the rest of the band to head in, but removed his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose

He tried to think about filling in ledgers, about Latin suffixes, about basic fencing drills, anything to turn his attention from the sinking feeling in his heart as he took in Nathan's stony silence, but it was futile. He deserved the singer's indifference. Before he could follow the others, Charles reached out and caught Nathan's arm. The black of his thumbnail stood starkly against the mottled white-greys of corpse paint and Charles was momentarily surprised by it. He'd forgotten about testing the lacquer. He told himself he deserved the mortifying rush of blood to his face as well when he pulled his hand away and dug into his coat pocket for the test bottle.

"Ah, here, Nathan." He held it out, glasses forgotten in favor of just getting the whole ordeal over with. "My meeting was for your...ah, nail polish. You're down to the last bottle of Starshine Black Matte in existence and the meeting was about reproducing the formula under a different label. Here's the first bottle. It hits stores officially next Friday."  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As one by one the members of Dethklok filed past their band manager and into the Dethsub, Nathan couldn't help but think about what Murderface had said only moments ago.

_"You were probably just trying to get laid. Talk about poor priority management…"_

Those were the words he had been searching for. Poor priority management. Nathan often found it difficult to express his thoughts and feelings, and when he could he found them to be of little value anyway. But in this instance, having the vocabulary to vocalize how he'd been feeling for days now was extremely validating. Of course Charles had been failing, it all suddenly clicked. Obviously when it came down to it, Nathan was not a high priority for him. He'd evidently had so much else going on that was of higher importance. Nathan, insignificant as it were, took the backseat.

Nathan wasn't sure if his gaze was as cold on Charles as he intended for it to be. Not that it mattered, really, Charles had taken his glasses off. almost as though to say 'Fuck you and your anger, Nathan, I don't have time for it.' As the singer prepared to stalk past the other as quickly as humanly possible, he found himself briefly wondering if Charles actually needed his glasses, or just wore them for effect. Perhaps he, like Nathan, only required them for reading. If that were the case, then he could see the repugnance circulating through Nathan's expression and body language perfectly fine.

Turning his hooked nose up as he moved to pass Charles, Nathan was caught completely off guard when he felt the man grab him. Quietly he watched Charles speak, his eyes moving from the man's reddened face to his fingers on Nathan's bare arm, which were quickly removed. The place where they'd been was coppery, clean of corpse paint. It occurred to Nathan that his sweat had loosened the paint off his skin, and Charles' touch had probably cleaned it away.

When Charles first revealed the small bottle of nail polish Nathan felt slightly confused, and avoided taking it. And even as its existence was slowly explained, he still did not. The longer Charles held it out, the more uncomfortable the situation felt. The drawn out pause had the band manager looking far less polished than Nathan had ever seen him before. His hair, blown awry and tousled by the wind, made him look haggard and frazzled, though his expression remained calm. Charles' collar was twisted and his tie rest at an odd angle. His arm, extended steadily in front of him, looked out of place. Everything about this moment was uncouth. There was no grace.

"Okay."

Nathan took the nail polish. There was no meaning to that encounter. Even when he had the perfect opportunity to say something meaningful, something apologetic to Nathan about the way he'd treated him recently, he seemed oblivious to it. Everything about Charles was always business, business, business. Nathan was sorely tempted to shrug, but decided against it, instead ducking into the entrance of the Dethsub without another word to his manager.


	2. Chapter 2

Nathan joined his fellow band mates some time later that evening in the lounge of the Dethsub, having taken the time to clean the remainder of the corpse paint off his body. Pickles, Murderface and Skwisgaar all reclined on sofas and chairs, while Toki lay on his stomach across the floor, concentration fixed on a large jig-saw puzzle. Nathan sank into his usual armchair and leaned back as Pickles handed him a beer.

"Ya know," Pickles said after awhile, lifting his head marginally from the back of his couch. "About what ya said before, Murderface, about Ofdensen try'na get laid. Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like he's hidin' somethin'? Like, the business meetin' thing seems like a lame excuse to me. I dunno," Pickles trailed off there, taking a long sip of his beer. "He's been actin' kinda shifty lately, I mean, am I wrong to say that?"

Nathan thought about commenting, but decided against it after some deliberation. His thoughts hadn't been on Charles since their encounter earlier that evening, and hearing mention of his name served only to fan the flames of anger that had been dwindling in the pit of his stomach. Even though his feelings were relevant, Nathan didn't feel very keen on sharing them with everyone. How gay would it sound if he were to open his big dumb mouth and whine that Charles hadn't been paying enough attention to him? Still, he wondered silently if Pickles was on to something. It seemed as though their manager had less time than usual for the band, and even though Charles had attempted to explain to Nathan personally the specifics of his preoccupation, some things just didn't add up.

"He told me he met with someone about a nail polish company, or something," Nathan put forth quietly, breaking the silence. Pickles scoffed loudly at this.

"And he expects us to believe that crap? If I didn't know any better I'd say he was lyin'."

"He _was_ lying," Murderface interjected. "Didn't you hear what he said? The 'business meeting,'" the bassist's stubby fingers clawed out air quotes, "was with a _she._ Bet he didn't mean to let that one schlip. The robot was on a date, I'd schtake my life on it." He reclined with his arms crossed, as though the dramatic proclamation settled things.

"A date, huh?" Nathan muttered, cracking open his beer. The notion didn't sit quite right. Something in the back of his head insisted that Charles wouldn't abandon the band during such an important concert for anything so frivolous, but then again, a business meeting about nail polish hardly seemed urgent. If anything, the business meeting idea made less sense than the possibility of Charles having been on a date.

"I could sees that," Skwisgaar supplied.

"Yeah, I can totally see it. I mean, we can't be his whole life," Pickles said.

"Well we should be!" Murderface sat up a little straighter on his couch. "Lischten, I have no problem with him getting laid, I really don't, but when it risks our lives? He was so busy trying to get his ding-dong wet he let the band down."

"That's true, we almost died today," Pickles conceded.

"Look," Nathan interrupted. "We have no proof that he was on a date. Although I will admit he did neglect us and put our lives in danger."

"What more proof do you need? He said he was at a 'business meeting,' right? With a _'she,'_ right? Oldest excuse in the book," Murderface replied.

"That's not proof," Nathan shot back. He'd been trying hard for weeks now to stay on Charles' good side, to stay out of his way. To keep the band from pulling anymore stupid shit so that their manager wouldn't have an excuse to yell at them again like he had after they'd double booked concerts with both Syria and Israel. And so far it had been working, kind of. Charles hadn't snapped at them, Toki had stopped punching people unprovoked, even the minor squabbles that had arisen between band members were now being settled without involving their manager, at least in the last few weeks. What was the point of all of that if they were going to start bothering Charles again?

But he did sort of deserve it. Charles had abandoned the concert, leaving Dethklok vulnerable. They could have died. And for what? The business meeting excuse sounded like just that - an excuse. And what sort of event called for an excuse? Nathan grit his teeth; if he had been Charles, he sure as hell wouldn't have admitted to missing the concert and jeopardizing the safety of the band just to get laid.

"If you need proof, I'll get you proof," Murderface craned his neck to peer behind the sofa. "Hey, you!" A hooded Klokateer approached from their station near the door. "Where was Ofdensen today?" The bassist dropped his tone to a whisper and pointed a finger straight at the Gear's chest. "And don't you try and lie to me, I'll know if you do."

"Master Ofdensen was at a business meeting," the Gear stated unhelpfully.

"Yeah? Who with?" Pickles called from his sofa.

"A Ms. Gorgorovich, my Lord, CEO of Sinful Glaze. They produce cosmetics."

"Ha! See, a chick! And where exactly did they conduct this 'business meeting?'" Murderface persisted.

"The Silver Swan Lounge, Master."

"Ha. What. Did. I. Tell you." Murderface reclined once more, triumphant. "Schilver Schwan Lounge, huh. Doesn't sound like an office park to me, but what do I know?" He cast a smug eye around the room, clearly implying that he knew quite a bit. The Gear bowed and retreated to their post.

"That does sound kind of romantic," Pickles admitted.

"Yeah, it does," Skwisgaar seconded.

Nathan merely grunted in response. So Ofdensen was telling the truth, at least partially. He had met with someone in the nail polish business. But whether or not that was the purpose of their meeting was entirely up for speculation. The Silver Swan Lounge sounded fancy and expensive. Perhaps the rendezvous had been romantic in nature after all. Nathan's stomach flip-flopped.

If that were the case, if he truly was seeing someone, Ofdensen would have even less time for the band. Less time for pal-ing around, especially with Nathan, who he seemed to have forgotten.

"Y'know, he hardly has enough time for us as it is," Pickles began, voicing Nathan's inner monologue as he so often did. "If Ofdensen's started spending all his time with some chick, how are we supposed to trust him to manage the band? I mean, we were all there today, we all saw what happened. He ditches us for five minutes and things fall apart"

"Exschcellent point, Pickles." Murderface placed his fist below his chin, looking the picture of deep thought. "I think we know what we need to do. But it'll be difficult, very difficult."

"What?" Nathan asked.

Murderface learned forward and beckoned them all to follow suit. Begrudgingly Nathan complied, shifting to the edge of his seat in order to put his face closer to the bassist's. Murderface shifted his gaze around the room, waiting for Pickles and Skwisgaar to lean in before breathing, "we have to break them up."

"So simple," Pickles replied quietly, nodding his head in apparent affirmation.

"Yes, we breaks them up," Skwisgaar whispered. "But how does we do it?"

"Breaks who up?" Toki called from his jig-saw puzzle on the floor.

"Toki, shh," Nathan hissed, leaning in even further to the cross-the-room huddle. "Guys, I don't think Toki can keep his mouth shut about this-"

"I can too!" Toki cried, rocking back onto his knees. "I can too keeps a secret! Whos we breaking up?"

"SHHH," Pickles, Skwisgaar, Murderface and Nathan voiced in unison. "We're talking about Ofdensen and his girlfriend," Pickles whispered toward Toki, motioning for him to move into their huddle. Toki folded his arms over his chest.

"Why woulds we breaks them up?"

Murderface rolled his eyes. "Because he's putting the band in jeopardy. You saw today, we nearly died because that jack-off abandoned us mid-performance to get laid!"

"What?" Toki exclaimed, his attempt at a whisper carrying loudly across the room.

"Toki, for the love of God, just come the f*ck here," Pickles snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Toki shuffled to the middle of the circle of sofas on his knees.

"So hows we be breaking them up?" Skwisgaar continued after a pause.

"Well, there are a couple ways we could approach it," Murderface started. "Sabotage, for one thing. We could try to get a hold of his phone, intercept his messages and calls and what not."

"That's not a bad idea," Nathan murmured. His earlier dedication to minimizing problems for their manager was all but forgotten in the midst of their conspiring. Fuck Charles. Fuck him for leaving them. Fuck him for not caring.

"I'm not finisched. We could follow him, confront him while they're on a date, or catch them in the act."

"I don't know if that would cause them to break up, though, catching them together," Pickles frowned. "Right? Cause that's kinda the whole point of this."

"Yeah," Skwisgaar agreed. "Well, if we gots his phone, we could use it to plans a date with her, and then when Ofdensen doesn't shows she think he stands her up."

There was a moment of silence after this suggestion as they all mulled it over.

"Actually, that's not a bad idea," Murderface acquiesced.

"Actually it's a pretty f*cking great idea." Nathan smirked, picturing a faceless woman sitting alone at a white-clothed dinner table.

"But how're we gonna get his phone?" Pickles raised.

"Toki," the frontman answered automatically. "Ofdensen would never see it coming."

"I don't knows about this," Toki piped up. "What ifs he catches me?"

"Gods, Toki, don't bes such a baby," Skwisgaar groaned, plainly exasperated.

"Just say you thought it was your phone or something, it doesn't matter, he won't catch you." Nathan steamrolled over the guitarist's complaint. He was too invested in the idea now to listen to adversity.

"I don't think I can dos it," Toki mumbled.

"Pickles?" Nathan growled.

"Yeah I'm on it," the drummed quickly agreed. With Pickles and Toki working together, they had a decent shot at getting their hands on Charles' phone.

"So uh, are wes doing this tonight, or..." Skwisgaar trailed off, looking at Nathan for instruction.

"Uh, no." Nathan furrowed his brow. If they were to approach Charles tonight, at 3 o' clock in the morning, they'd need a somewhat compelling reason. The CFO had been all too clear about his distaste for nightly disruptions in the past. The singer vaguely recalled Charles having once said that while the boys may like sleeping all day and staying up all night, as was their prerogative, such plans were never to involve him. Apparently, business was done during the daylight hours.

Instead of iterating this to his bandmates Nathan stretched and yawned. "I'm too tired," he muttered, cracking his arms over his head with a loud pop. The action threw his rib cage out of alignment with his spine, temporarily squeezing his lungs and spurning a new coughing fit. "Dude, I think I f*cked up my lungs," he announced hesitantly once it had passed, rubbing moisture from the corners of his bloodshot eyes.

"How you does that, Nathans? From the smoke?" Toki asked.

"I dunno," Nathan replied, placing a hand over his chest. "It's probably nothing." Slowly the singer climbed to his feet, taking care not to jostle his torso too much in the process. Every breath, even the short, light ones, seemed to singe the inside of his body. "I'll sleep it off."

Nathan gestured a vague goodbye to the others before plodding out of the lounge toward his private quarters on the Dethsub, where he slumbered till the following afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

Charles entered the band meeting that afternoon despite a mounting sense of trepidation. The boys, already seated around the overlarge wooden table, were chatting quietly among themselves until he assumed his seat at the head, at which point their voices trailed off and died. That couldn't be good. Silence usually meant brooding or scheming that could only lead to catastrophe. The manager-lawyer tried to look on the bright side; if they weren't talking, he at least had command of their attention.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Charles popped the latches on his leather briefcase and withdrew a neatly binder-clipped stack of papers. "We've got a lot to cover today, so I'll try to keep it strictly 'need-to-know.' First, the ah, Prime Minister of Japan has publicly accepted Dethklok's apology for the destruction of their capital city. A small portion of the funds we've allocated toward rebuilding Tokyo will be channeled toward funeral costs for the fans who died at last night's show. Fortunately, since the set was built in a district of the city that had already been destroyed by ah, _Godzilla,_ no further reparations will need to be made in that area." Charles paused to allow for comment, flicking his gaze between each band member's face in turn. Skwisgaar's eyes were focused on the neck of his Gibson Explorer as he deftly fingered a scale, Toki and Pickles were absorbed in their Dethphones, and Murderface gnawed at a plate of hot wings as Nathan watched.

"Second order of business; as some of you mentioned in the last meeting, the fans being brought backstage after a show are no longer to your liking. The Klokateers charged with selecting these fans-"

"You mean Skanks-Patrols?" Skwisgaar blurted, soliciting a cackle from the others.

"Sure. Skank-Patrol. They would appreciate an updated list of ah, preferences from each of you," Charles deadpanned. He separated out five individual packets from the paper stack at his elbow and passed them along the table. "Take one, pass it down. Inside you'll find a questionnaire designed to simplify what sort of company you're looking for."

"God, you're kidding me, right?" Murderface took the manila envelope Toki offered him and tossed it onto the table. "Leave it to this guy to find a way to make banging chicks feel like paperwork."

"It's a single sheet, William, I think you boys can handle that much."

Pickles, who'd already ripped open his packet, started fiddling with the fountain pen that rolled out. "So, are we just s'posed to like, check the boxes for sh*t we want?"

"That is correct," Charles affirmed. "And if you have any special requests, there's a space you can write those in at the bottom. Make sure you write your name at the top," he added, seeing that the rest of the boys had torn their envelopes open. Skwisgaar had thrown his guitar over his knees in favor of the pen, with which he was now scribbling furiously at the bottom of his page. "There's no rush to complete these, so feel free to take the day to look them over, think about your answers."

"Wait," Nathan was scowling. He'd donned the wire frame glasses he used for reading. "What if we want more than one option?"

"You can check as many boxes as you like under each category. For instance, under hair color, you can check both brown and blonde, if that's what you would prefer." There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the clicking and scribbling of the pens. Apparently, providing the boys with some sort of activity to occupy them during band meetings wasn't a bad idea. Charles filed that away for later investigation. "Next on the agenda; we've just begun the new tour, but since the new album hasn't officially been released yet, we're looking at the possibility of a second tour closely following this one."

"No."

"Nathan, you have an ah, objection?" Charles cast a shrewd eye to the vocalist.

"Back-to-back tours? Pass."

"Well, not exactly back-to-back. We could arrange for a brief stay at Mordhaus between the two to give the band time to relax-"

"No. If the new album means a second tour, we'll just stop working on it." Nathan sat back and swiveled his face to stare at Charles, jaw locked and arms crossed. The CFO matched his gaze just as coolly.

"We've already announced an international release date for the next album, I think it would be wise to follow through with that. We could postpone the tour for the new album, though it's likely we would see some financial repercussions."

"Well, then let's cancel this tour."

"Really? On the second day?" Charles raised an eyebrow. Nathan's eyes dropped to the table. "Does anyone else think we should cancel this tour?" Silence, apart from the scribbling. "Alright then. Now, as I was saying, between the two tours I can arrange for some time off at Mordhaus, and after the tour for the new album has been completed you guys can have an extended break. How does that sound?"

"Hey guys," Skwisgaar straightened up from the hunched position he'd assumed over his questionnaire, holding it out for them to see. "Looks, Murderface, I didn't knows you liked the ladies what ams fatties." Across the top of his paper the guitarist had written MERDURFACE in all caps. At a distance Charles could barely discern a checked box or two; under the 'Body Size' category, Skwisgaar had filled in 'Very Heavy,' and at the bottom of the page he had drawn a crude, amply sized woman.

"I DO NOT," Murderface screeched as the other boys cracked up, diving across the table in an attempt to snatch the paper out of Skwisgaar's hand. The Swede poled one arm above his head, keeping it just slightly out of reach. "Give that to me right now or I schwear to God-"

"Let's all write our own names at the top of the paper, shall we?" Charles cut in, trying to reign them back before the meeting could devolve any further. Murderface successfully swiped the paper out of Skwisgaar's hands and stomped back to his chair, where he tore it into shreds.

"Looks at that, he ams rippings up my paper!" Skwisgaar pointed accusingly across the table, darting looks between the bassist and CFO as though awaiting vindication. The manager-lawyer flicked through the paper stack before him and produced another envelope containing the questionnaire, prepared as always for hiccups such as these.

"Now, I'll know who filled these out because you'll be turning them in to me, so it's pointless to write anyone else's name on your paper," he admonished, pressing the fresh envelope into the guitarist's outstretched hand. "As I was saying-"

"Done!" Toki chirruped from his place at the end of the table.

"Really?" Charles frowned. "As I said, you have as long as you need to work on them, so perhaps you should hang on to it-"

"Nah, I'm finished." Toki scooted his chair back from the table and pranced around to reach the CFO. Charles took the proffered form and spared it a cursory glance, verifying that Toki had indeed filled it out and written his own name at the top. Nearly every box on the page was checked. Tucking the paper into a folder, Charles cleared his throat and attempted to start again.

"Thank you, Toki, as I was saying, I'll do my best to make sure that you guys have a decent break between the tours. Does that work for you, Nathan?" The vocalist grunted in response. He'd removed his reading glasses and set the pen down, only a handful of boxes checked on his unnamed sheet. "I'll have more details when the time comes. While we're on the subject, how is the recording going?" Charles looked at Nathan expectantly for an answer. Though each member of Dethklok contributed their own specific genius, it was ultimately the frontman who knew their true sound; he was the 'end all, be all,' the final say in what they produced. He knew that Nathan had no qualms deleting entire completed albums if they were even marginally less than perfect. Should that be the case this time, or if he did so on a whim to get out of the second tour, there would be hell to pay.

"Eh, it's going," Pickles volunteered in Nathan's stead after a lengthy pause.

"I see." If Nathan was Number One in terms of Dethklok's sound, Pickles was Number Two. "So you'll be ready for that June 6th release date?"

"Whoa, whoa, I didn't say that," the drummer backtracked. "Who said anything about June 6th? You know we don't like committing to things."

"Yeah, you knows this," Skwisgaar parroted. Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Uh huh. Well, there's not exactly pressure from the label as of yet, but you actually _did_ commit to a release date. June 6th."

"When dids we do that?" Skwisgaar frowned.

"About a week ago."

"Wells then why don'ts we remembers this?"

"Well, you were all very drunk at the time-"

"Oh, here we go _again!_ " Murderface cut the CFO off, throwing his pen across the room. It struck and cracked a mirror on the opposite wall. "I don't know how many times we have to tell you this, _Robot,_ we can't be held responsible for anything we say or do while drunk."

"I feel like you keep doin' this," Pickles sighed, pressing his palms over his eyes as though at wit's end. "Like we keep havin' to tell you, but you just don't seem to listen. Do you have a listening problem? Is that what this is?"

"Well, you all are drunk a great deal of the time, and you boys seemed pretty excited about the release date-"

"Wow, what is this, a lecture?" Pickles snapped.

"All I'm saying is that if we waited until you were all completely sober to-"

"I don't likes yous tone," Toki interrupted, half-standing from his chair and placing both hands on the table before him. Murderface did the same a moment later, and Charles resigned himself to accept the onslaught of verbal abuse that followed for the next several minutes, knowing they would tire themselves out eventually.

He'd been expecting this. After the catastrophe that was yesterday's concert, the CFO understood that the boys had some pent up rage to deal with, and that they found it easiest to direct it toward their 'robot butler," as Charles intended for them to. When Dethklok misdirected their anger, the world suffered, and so their ire was his cross to bear. It was more than a responsibility; it was his duty, his honor to be of service to Dethklok in any way, shape or form. Should his masters deem him deserving of retribution he would suffer it, for he belonged to them, body and soul. And he had failed them, allowed harm to befall them because of his own shortcomings. Risking their lives for Nathan's acknowledgement had been an ultimately selfish act, the sort of thing the CFO had vowed to leave behind the moment he'd signed his contract. He could not afford to make such a mistake again.

But as Charles recalled it, the boys truly had been enthusiastic about a June 6th release date. Nathan and Pickles in particular had expressed high expectations for the next album, and enthused that recording was going better than expected. Granted, they had all been drinking and relaxing in the front room, but nobody had seemed overtly sloppy. Charles was used to the boys being either drunk or high (or both) at any given time, and as he'd tried pointing out already, he couldn't very well wait for them to all sober up before conducting any business. Besides, it wasn't as though he'd brought up the release date while they were under the influence to trick them into agreeing - Nathan had suggested June 6th, and the other band members had agreed to it. Because June 6th was brutal. 06/06 or what not.

It was useless to try and explain any of that to the band, of course. Perhaps were he to encounter them one-on-one he might have a chance, but when they were all together like this, there was no point. So Charles bit his tongue and allowed the accusations to fly. As he'd thought, they incorrectly remembered the facts of the night they'd agreed on the album release, painting the picture as though the sleuth CFO had waited until Dethklok was drunk and vulnerable to spring the release date upon them, knowing full well they were incapable of properly consenting while inebriated. Nathan started in on the 'back-to-back tours' issue again, Pickles on the malfunctioning robot set piece from the night before, Toki on the Dethphones, and on and on it went. Nazi, Robot, Slave-Driver. If he'd heard it once he'd heard it a thousand times.

"And another thing," Murderface continued as the reprimand wound down. Charles had remained mostly silent throughout, knowing it was futile to interject until the men had blown off some steam. "We are in charge here. You seem to forget that _we_ are Dethklok. Ever heard of it? Yeah I thought so. So in the future if you could just treat us with some reschpect-"

"Respecs," Skwisgaar seconded.

"I think that's what we're trying to get at here," Pickles said, placing his palms flat on the table. "We just don't feel respected, and that's, eh, that's gotta change."

His boys had drawn up quite the list of charges. The CFO knew better than to take it too personally, but after yesterday's mistake he couldn't quite shake the feeling that their disappointment was somewhat justified. "Okay, respect. Got it." Charles addressed the table at large, trying to keep the irony from his tone. The manager-lawyer had enough experience deescalating situations such as these in the past, he practically had it down to a science.

"For now, Nathan, put the release date out of your mind. Just see how the recording goes, and we can reevaluate down the line." Charles looked directly at Nathan as he spoke, hoping that the empty words would placate the vocalist for the time being. Nathan didn't break his gaze, and after a moment nodded.

"Yeah, that sounds alright."

"Good. As for discussing business while you're all drinking, perhaps we should save formal decisions for band meetings only. If you could all manage not to drink too heavily before coming to a scheduled band meeting-"

"No promises," Pickles said.

"-then situations like this can be avoided in the future. And I'm afraid we can't just pull the Dethphones, Toki, you've all spent a great deal of money-"

"Nathans, ams you alright?"

At Toki's words Charles eyes snapped back to the frontman, immediately taking in his twisted posture, dark hair falling over hunched shoulders. Nathan was coughing, or struggling to cough, into one enormous hand, without making a sound. A slight sheen of sweat covered his reddened cheeks and forehead, and underneath the blood rushing to his skin the man's color looked slightly grey. Charles slid one finger imperceptibly to the Emergency Call Button under the table and waited for the fit to pass.

"Dude, breathe," Pickles commanded, slapping the vocalist hard on the upper back. The man sucked in a raspy, stunted breath and coughed raw in the back of his throat. Another breath, another, chest rising and falling. The blood was beginning to drain from his face. Charles kept his finger on the button.

"You ah, feeling alright, Nathan?" The CFO asked after he seemed to have caught his breath. A Klokateer was instantly at the singer's side with a glass of water, which was gratefully accepted and gulped down.

"Fine," he rasped in response, waving a hand as though to indicate the meeting should proceed. Charles' eyes narrowed.

"Now that I think about it, after yesterday's incident I think it would be wise if you all saw a doctor. Just to make sure that no serious injuries occurred," he explained as some of the boys began to protest. "We'll conclude the meeting here today, to allow you all time to do that."

To Charles' surprise, an email appeared in his inbox not four hours later containing five separate medical reports. Dethklok's personal doctor had been thorough - it was rare enough that the boys let him examine them in the first place, so when he had the chance Charles had instructed him to gather as much information as possible. The CFO clicked through each report, beginning with Nathan's and working his way down the list. No cancer, no STIs, no serious hormonal imbalances; the frontman was in generally good health, as the CFO worked tirelessly to ensure. However, the doctor had performed a chest x-ray and pulse oximetry exam. Nathan's blood pressure was lower than normal, and although no significant damage could be detected in his lungs, the singer had been supplied with an oxygen tank to use for the next 48 hours. The doctor believed Nathan was suffering from injuries related to smoke inhalation, likely caused by the gasoline moat fire during the set malfunction.

It wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Nathan Explosion under his watch, Charles reminded himself. The man had been tasered, beaten, burned, sucked by leeches, nearly killed - he risked his life every time he left the safety of Mordhus, which itself was not impenetrable. Close-calls were practically in his job description, and yet Charles could not quash the mounting sense of inadequacy for having allowed this to happen.

As much as he would like to cancel at least a handful of the upcoming shows, Charles knew that was not within the realm of possibility. Regular Dethklok performances around the globe were crucial to sustaining the world's economy, so much so that cancelling a performance in even the most remote, insignificant location could have far-reaching consequences. Should the vocalist grow short of breath and collapse on stage he might be able to postpone a show or two, but if Nathan was able to recuperate, then the tour would continue as scheduled. For now, he would verify that the singer was resting when not performing and not straining his lungs even further. Chagrined, Charles closed out of Nathan's health inspection to scroll through those of the other band members. All normal. He refused to feel accomplished at the thought.

At some point the manager knew he would have to face Nathan and verify he was using the oxygen tank as instructed. After the blissfully uneventful show that night, Charles ordered a Klokateer to inform him if and when the vocalist retired to his room so that he might approach him without the other band members present. The last few solo encounters he'd had with Nathan (few and far between as they were) had not gone as well as Charles might have hoped, and given the circumstances of the visit he planned to pay the man tonight, expectations were at an all time low.

It was a quarter-to-three by the time the Klokateer alerted him that Nathan had left the main room for the evening. Charles fixed his tie, swallowed the last of the brandy he'd been nursing and shouldered out of his office with the dignity of a man headed for the gallows. Outside the bulkhead door to Nathan's room, Charles took a steadying breath and knocked.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a long day for Nathan.

A _very_ long day.

After the disaster of a band meeting that afternoon, Toki and Pickles had practically dragged the vocalist tooth and nail to Dethklok's personal doctor. God, he had not wanted to go. Seeing a doctor required forethought, planning. Gearing up, so to speak, for the undertaking. Having a doctor's visit thrust upon him in the middle of an otherwise perfectly ordinary day had been nothing short of horrifying. Sure, looking back on it now he could bitterly appreciate that the others had suffered exams just to make him feel more at ease, but God he had hated it (and them) at the time.

As luck would have it, Nathan was the only one who left with any sort of diagnosis. Smoke inhalation. Pickles had taken the liberty of pointing out that if smoke inhalation could kill you he'd have died by now, but apparently the doctor believed what Nathan had experienced was more acute. The fumes that the singer had breathed in from the gasoline fire could be deadly if one endured prolonged exposure, but according to his chest x-rays, Nathan would more than likely survive. In the meantime, to treat whatever damage had been done to his lungs and blood cells, the doctor had ordered him to undergo oxygen therapy. He felt like a fucking douche bag, what with the little metal wheel-cart containing his oxygen tank and the cannula shoved so far up his nostrils it was practically impaling his frontal lobe. If it hadn't been for the band's insistence that he use the tank Nathan would have trashed it immediately, but the other four members of Dethklok could be stubbornly fixated when it suited them. They'd forced him to trolley the cart about all day, insisted he wear the prescribed finger pulse oximeter, and forbidden him from coming within ten feet of the hot tub despite having absolutely no proof that oxygen tanks near hot water were inherently dangerous. Worst of all had been their incessant mocking, yet every time Nathan barked that he'd had just about enough the others would chastise him for trying to rip the cannula out, insisting that he was overreacting to their jokes and that if he really cared about the band he would do as the doctor ordered so they wouldn't have to cancel their tour.

It was a relief to finally retreat to the familiar quiet of his room that night. With the door closed behind him Nathan finally tore the cannula from his nose and flung it to the floor. It was a strange feeling, having it gone. The regular, oxygen poor air felt both better and worse. Perhaps to compensate for being the excluded band member for a change, Nathan had overindulged more than usual that night, and found himself swaying as he tried to simultaneously unbutton his jeans and walk to the bed. He had barely had time to undress before a familiar knock sounded outside his door.

It could only be Charles.

No one else's knock held so much self-assurance behind it, a command rather than a request for entrance. No, that wasn't right. Not even a command, a _warning_ that someone was about to enter, like it or not. Nathan assumed a seated position on the edge of his mattress, somewhat uncomfortable to only be wearing underwear. It was far too late to worry about that now.

"Come in."

"Hello, Nathan." The CFO was still dressed to the nines, short, neat brown hair in perfect place, trademark slate-grey suit crisply ironed. The image of refinement starkly contrasted with Nathan's memory of Charles' from the night before, crooked collar and tie askew on the helicopter pad. Looking back on it now, the image had a faded, dreamlike quality, so unreal compared to the flesh and blood man that stood before him now. Probably he was remembering it wrong anyway, Charles was always this polished, somehow even at three in the morning.

"Hey." Nathan replied cautiously. If memory served, this was quite possibly the first time Charles had been by his quarters in weeks. As a general rule, cleanliness on the Dethsub suffered, and Nathan's room was no exception. Attempting to draw the manager's attention away from the piles of beer bottles and old clothes littering the floor, Nathan yanked the oxygen cart toward the bed and began unwrapping the vacuum sealed oxygen mask the doctor had insisted he use at night.

"Do you ah, need help with that?"

"No, I know how it works," Nathan snapped, fumbling to secure the mask's strap behind his head. The mask dangled below his chin, reeking of new plastic. "Do you need something, or can I put this f*cking thing on?"

"I just wanted to be sure that you were using the oxygen tank. It's very important that you keep it with you at all times. We've got near-daily concerts for the next couple weeks, so the band needs you to take care of yourself in the meantime."

"Can't we just f*cking cancel some?" Nathan asked, brow furrowed. Truthfully he felt okay, arguably better since the doctor had forced the nebulizer treatment on him during his examination, but the thought of performing tomorrow was less than appealing. Hell, he'd almost not even shown up to the show tonight, if it weren't for the diligence of the Klokateers and that irritating, conspiratorial fixation the band seemed to have with him at the moment.

"I'm afraid not. Since this is a short tour we're on a very tight schedule, and cancelling even one show is the equivalent of throwing your money down the drain. So ah, just try to take it easy. No smoking, no yelling, no strenuous activity - basically just use your best judgement. If you think something might cause further damage to your lungs, try not to do it. Okay?"

Nathan grumbled under his breath, intentionally indecipherable. Nothing appealed to the frontman more than engaging in directly forbidden activities, but the hour was late. If he felt so inclined, tomorrow would grant him plenty of opportunity to disobey Charles. Not that he particularly wanted to smoke and yell and whatever else the manager didn't want him doing, but a man needed options.

"Good. I'll let you get some sleep, then. If you need anything, you ah, know where to find me." Charles hovered a moment longer near the door, watching the singer slip the oxygen mask over his mouth as one polished black shoe wavered on the threshold. "One more thing. I know there's been a lot going on with the tour right now, but you boys are my priority. If you'd like, we could try to plan an activity together. Your choice. Just ah, let me know."

With that Charles departed, letting the water-tight door seal behind him with a heavy clang. Nathan, alone, drunk and a little slower than usual, sat at the edge of the bed for a few minutes more, reciting the last few lines of their conversation in his head. 'Plan an activity together.' Something to that effect. Did that mean just Nathan and Charles? Or Dethklok and Charles? The phrasing was unclear, particularly since right before that bit the CFO had stated "you boys are my priority." Boys, plural, as in Toki, Skwisgaar, Murderface, Pickles and Nathan, the afterthought.

Fuck it. If Charles had been ambiguous in his direction, then Nathan would take it to mean whatever the fuck he wanted. He'd think of something for just the two of them, and if Charles didn't like it, well, tough. He was done being patient, he was done deferring to the guys. The only problem would be planning an activity that the others wouldn't try to piggyback onto.

Lights off and oxygen mask on, it was hours yet before Nathan was able to sleep that night as he tried unsuccessfully to think of an activity exclusively for two.


	5. Chapter 5

In the end, getting a hold of Charles' phone proved to be much easier than anticipated.

To everyone's surprise, Toki turned out to be a valuable source of information regarding the band's plot. The rhythm guitarist only slept a few hours each night, and therefore had knowledge of day to day operations none of the others possessed. Apparently Charles began each day in their private gym at 4:30 sharp, where he trained for at least two hours. All they had to do was plan a morning for Toki to join Charles in the gym, distract him long enough for Pickles to snatch his Dethphone, use it to invite Katrina Gorgorovich on a date and return it before he even realized it was gone. No problem.

Exactly one week after the date of the failed concert in Japan, Skwisgaar, Nathan, and Murderface met Pickles in the front room of Hatredcopter 1, having traded in the Dethsub now that their remaining shows were landlocked. The drummer wore a black ski cap pulled low over his dread-over.

"Why are you wearing that?" Murderface asked as Pickles crept toward them from the hallway, Charles' Dethphone held victoriously in one hand. They'd chosen to leave the lights off to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to themselves, though the fact that they were all awake at 5 wasn't too incriminating; they'd partied much later in the past.

"I wanted to blend into the shadows. Y'know, bright red hair, kind of eye catching?"

"Where was the phone?" Nathan asked.

"Next to his stuff, but real close to the door. Basically all I had to do was wait for his back to be turned, reach my arm in through a crack in the door and grab it." Pickles held it up proudly, pressing the circle HOME button to light up the screen. There was no screen saver. The time, 5:05, flashed at them from a black background.

"Well, gives it here," Skwisgaar commanded. Pickles automatically handed it over to the Swede, who swiped right to access the password page. "Uh, so does anyones actually knows the pass codes?"

"Toki knew." Pickles stared at his hand, where he'd written down an 8 digit code in black ink. "8-9-9-5-1-3-5-3. No, sahrry, 5-8."

"Okay, I's in."

Nathan held his breath as Skwisgaar selected the contacts icon. A list of names appeared, and the guitarist began scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling.

"Holy sh*t, how many peoples dis guy need to know, huh?" The blond muttered. Gus Cervanka. Ricardo Cervantes. Angelina Cerwin.

"Just press the G on the side," Murderface instructed crossly, voice raised. Pickles and Nathan shushed him. Skwisgaar did as prompted, scrolled a few times, and there it was. Katarina Gorgorovich, marketing executive for Sinful Glaze. Her contact information contained a plethora of details including date of birth, email and mailing addresses, social profiles, and a URL to the Sinful Glaze website. Of course Charles would be the only person in the world who actually filled in all those details. For Christ's sake, Nathan didn't even have half the band saved in his Dethphone.

"Okay, so does we call her?" Skwisgaar whispered, finger poised and ready to dial.

"NO!"

"God no, wait wait wait."

Pickles and Nathan both lunged for the phone, smacking it to the floor in the process of wrestling it from the blond.

"What the f*cks was thats for?" Skwisgaar hissed irritably, rubbing the backs of his knuckles where Nathan had struck him.

"None of us sound like Charles. If we call her she'll hear our voices and know it isn't him." Pickles had picked up the phone and was scrolling furiously back to the contact information. "We have to send a text."

"Sure, real personal," Skwisgaar muttered bitterly.

"What should we even say?"

"I think our... best bet here... is to keep it simple," Pickles muttered, concentration focused on the open text screen in front of him. Nathan watched him start a sentence, erase, and begin again several times. Little prickles of frustration were starting to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. What if Charles caught them? Surely the blame would fall on him. He was the frontman after all, the band leader. Regardless of the fact that Murderface had masterminded this whole operation, the CFO looked to him to keep the others from getting too out of control. But hey, he'd fucking tried. He'd tried for weeks to stay out of Charles' way and prevent the other guys from starting shit, but had he gotten any sort of recognition for it? No. Other than a couple of hasty band meetings he hadn't even seen Charles since the night he'd stopped by Nathan's room for all of two minutes. If anything, the man's absence this past week only lent further support to Murderface's theory that he had a girlfriend now. What else could be taking up so much of his time? In a way he deserved this, Nathan reasoned. Dethklok should come first.

"You're taking too long," Murderface spat after a minute more of watching Pickles, thrusting one beefy hand out for the Dethphone. "Why don't you juscht let _me_ take care of it, y'know, since you clearly don't know what to say to a lady." Pickles rotated away in answer, positioning himself so that the bassist could no longer see the text screen.

"Hang on... hang on... done." Pickles jabbed his thumb decisively on the SEND button and turned, displaying the phone for the others to read.

**Will you have dinner with me tonight?**

It was perfect. Simple, elegant, straightforward. Nathan reread the line several times, nodding his head as the others praised Pickles' master word choice. The only issue now would be waiting for a response text, and returning the Dethphone before Charles noticed it was missing. They still had time, if Charles really spent as long in the gym as Toki said he did. Plus, the guitarist had promised to stall by any means necessary should he attempt to leave early.

The wait didn't last long. Fifteen minutes later the Dethphone buzzed in the back pocket of Pickles' jeans, making them all jump.

**When and where?**

After some deliberation, they all agreed that The Silver Swan Lounge was a decent choice, since Charles and Katarina had obviously been there already, and that 7 pm seemed a reasonably romantic time for a dinner date. Katarina's response was quicker the second time around, a simple affirmation, and with that Pickles deleted the text thread, blocked her number to prevent further messages from reaching Charles, and slipped off to return the Dethphone with time to spare.

Too excited to sleep, the boys spent the rest of the morning watching TV in the living room while eating French toast, courtesy of Jean-Pierre. A freshly showered Toki joined them shortly before 7 am. Charles hadn't suspected a thing, he relayed. Toki had joined in on some sort of martial arts training lesson, and the CFO had encouraged him to stay and be his sparring partner for the morning. Nathan couldn't help but notice that once again someone besides himself was getting to spend quality time with Charles, and the thought only further steeled his resolve that they'd done the right thing.

So it had worked. Somehow, God only knew, they'd managed to pull this whole thing off without a fucking hitch. The only thing left to do now was wait for Charles to find out what they'd done and confront them.

But the entire day passed with Charles' saliently absent until well after that night's show in Budapest had drawn to an anticlimactic close. By the time the CFO made an appearance in the front room, the boys had put away four cases of Hungarian beer and dumped at least a case or more into the hot tub. Supposedly hot beer soaks were good for the skin, Pickles had said, and they'd rolled with it. A handful of groupies had been good sports about the whole thing and joined the boys in the murky brown water, while two sat chatting animatedly with Toki on the sofa. The women noticed Charles first and fell silent, eventually drawing Dethklok's attention to the rigid form of their manager.

"Oh heeeey," Pickles said, voice ringing, "look who decided to join us!"

"You boys been ah, drinking, have you?" His manager's voice, though tinny and far away, reached Nathan in the hot tub over the blonde groupie currently whispering in his ear. The singer had heard that undertone before - if he hadn't had so much to drink he may have been able to place it. It made his skin crawl.

"Just a liiiiittle."

"I see. Looks like the show went well. That's good." There was a long pause. Nathan's eyes, somewhat unfocused, worked to make sense of Charles from a distance. Something about him seemed unnatural. He was holding himself differently. Taller, or rather straighter, if that were even possible. There was a squareness to his shoulders that wasn't always there, a sharply angled quality to his body that emanated tension like a coiled spring. "I received an interesting email this afternoon. It seems the executive I had a business meeting with last week was under the impression we would be having dinner together tonight." Nathan exchanged glances with Skwisgaar and Murderface, both biting their bottom lip in effort to keep from laughing. Next to him, Pickles was turning beet red, leaking tears from holding his breath so long. Nathan bit the inside of his cheek and struggled to mangle the sly smile on his face into something a bit more impassive.

Suddenly from Toki's position on the sofa came a loud, high pitched snort, and the whole scene of forced composure dissolved. Pickles expelled all his breath at once in one loud, triumphant "HAAH," while Murderface shook with laughter so violent hot tub water sloshed out across the floor. The sound was deafening, infectious, and Nathan heard and felt his own laughter booming back at him around the room for what seemed like forever.

"You think this is funny? Guys, this could have seriously impacted a major business deal for _your_ band. Nathan," Charles gaze suddenly bored into the frontman's, eyes flashing behind thin glass frames. Nathan, hiccuping as the laughter finally dwindled, plastered a look of sincere contrition on his face, though it felt more like a leer. The others weren't listening, still wiping tears from their eyes. "This whole deal was for your nail polish. I'm pretty sure I explained to you that the company you've been using for the last four years went under. If this deal falls through you'll have to find something else, and you'll all be out the hundreds of thousands of dollars it's taken to get this ball rolling in the first place. Seriously guys, I'm talking big money here. Legal team, market research, production costs, this is big stuff."

"Sos, who cares abouts some dumb dildos nails polish?" Skwisgaar snickered.

"You should all care, this is your money - _your money_ \- going into this project. Nathan." The singer shrunk just a fraction deeper into the murky hot tub water, Charles' expression taking its intended effect. "Do you want this deal to fall through?"

"I uh... well, I never even asked to uh... do this deal in the first place."

Charles looked as though he'd been struck. The fine skin around his eyes and mouth tightened, deepening the frown lines ever present on his face. "Be that as it may, by doing this you've all seriously jeopardized thousands of dollars."

"So what happened?" Pickles called gleefully, ignorant to the intensity of Charles' displeasure. "Did she break up with you?"

"How longs was she waitings at the restaurant?"

"Break up- what?. She didn't have to wait. Lucky for all of you, I learned about this in time to keep the whole thing from blowing up in your faces."

Murderface held up a hand. "Whoa, buddy, lischten, whatever uh, _'relationship drama'_ you're going through really shouldn't come back to blow up in _our_ faces. So if you could just refrain from involving Dethklok in the future-"

"What are you even talking about? Relationship - there's no _relationship_ with this woman outside of this business arrangement, okay? Guys, what on earth is going on here?"

"Don't you lie to us, we know all about your girlfriend _Katarina_."

"Yeah, yous girlfriends Katarina!"

Emotions flitted across the man's face - shock, disbelief, comprehension. "Is that what this is all about? That woman is the marketing executive of the company we're partnering with," Charles fumed, "not some plaything you can torment with prank texts and fake dinner reservations."

"Oh sure, you want to protect her from _us,_ " Nathan heard himself shouting - why was he shouting? "But we're the ones that need protecting. We almost died last week, Charles, on that stupid f*cking robot, and where were you?"

"Ons a dates with Katarinas!" Skwisgaar supplied.

"Yeah! Clearly your girlfriend is a bigger priority than the band." Pickles crossed his arms.

"That was the first - first and _last_ \- time I ever intended to meet that woman, purely for business purposes. Look, I don't need to defend myself here, but you do all realize that if you hadn't contacted that woman in the first place I wouldn't have had to see her tonight. Did that thought ever cross your minds?" Charles glanced accusingly around the room, eyes like slits. "So good going, guys. Really." It took a minute for the five of them to process this, during which Charles turned heel and marched from the room.

"So... wait," Pickles said, a tiny smirk still fixed on his face. "He actually went on that date then?"

"Sounds like it to me." Skwisgaar chuckled.

"I don't know why he got so upschet," Murderface spat derisively, "I mean, if he wasn't dating that Katarina chick in the first place, shouldn't he be thanking us for setting him up? I mean, we're a bunch of regular match makers!"

Nathan's eyes narrowed at the bassist's assessment. Charles should thank them for setting him up? What sort of logic was that? Hadn't the entire point of this been to break up the fictitious relationship Murderface had duped them all into believing was real? This was so typical. Something hadn't gone to plan, so he was trying to put a good spin on yet another fuck up, somehow hoping along the way he'd be able to take credit for a job well done.

"Shut up, Murderface." Nathan's lip curled in disgust.

"What? I'm just saying, if anything we did the guy a favor!"

A wave of fresh guilt crashed over Nathan's addled consciousness. Their manager's anger after the double booking incident had seemed insurmountable at the time, but this, oh yes, this topped it. Unlike their usual fuck ups involving the business, this plot had been personal, and as far as he could recall they'd never deliberately interfered with Ofdensen's life before now - hell, the concept of him even having a life outside managing Dethklok was a foreign concept. This was all beginning to feel a little below the belt. 'Favor?' Yeah fucking right.

Nathan couldn't sit there anymore, stewing in the filthy water while Charles undoubtedly boiled over the night's events. The groupies, frozen throughout the exchange, had begun to thaw and mill about the hot tub, and the rest of Dethklok seemed to have all but forgotten the unpleasant exchange with their manager in favor of winning their attention. With a muttered excuse to his band mates Nathan emerged soaking from the tub and collected a towel to wind around his waist, headed in search of Charles.


	6. Chapter 6

Charles walked into his bedroom with leaden feet, maneuvering in the dark past the furniture through rote memorization alone. It wasn't as if there was much there to trip over. A desk, a bureau, a smaller bed tucked in the corner. If his room at Mordhaus was spartan, it was nothing compared to his room on the helicopter, which he’d designed to be practical, functional, utilitarian. It wasn’t often that he thought of the space as comforting, but with the door closed behind him Charles allowed himself to relax at last, tension dissipating from his neck and shoulders with every circular roll of his head. At the desk, he pulled the chain on an antique banker's lamp, flooding the dark room with soft, shadowy gold light. The carriage clock beside the lamp read 3:30 am, somehow both too early and too late to attempt sleep - not that he intended to. There was a pile of paperwork with his name on it in the office, and Roger Yates, retired General of the United States Marine Corps, was scheduled for pick up in Holland for Close-Quarters-Combat drills in the helicopter's gym at 4:30. On a night filled with inconveniences, he couldn't help but find it interesting that he'd managed to schedule the most brutal, physically punishing training for the following morning. 

At least he had an hour to kill, enough time to wash the day away with a shower. Following his death and rebirth last year he'd grown accustomed to subbing showers for sleep most days, as his new body proved practically indefatigable. Instead of the 4 hours rest each night he'd used to suffer through, Charles now slept maybe once a week, a trade-off that had almost no drawbacks. He got more work done now than ever, and if the days at times bled together, well, that was nothing new. Besides, he'd never been one for sitting idle. Sleep had been an inevitability before, a necessary evil he'd gone through the motions of simply to maintain a steady quality of work. Now that he could forgo it for longer periods, penciling it in his schedule like a meeting, life was significantly smoother. Well, usually. The regular shower schedule helped to break up time, anyway, and was almost as refreshing as a full night's sleep. Traditionally his daily 30 minute shower was at 6:30 after his morning exercise and not at half past 3 as it was now, but the grimy feel of last night's suit was beginning to turn his stomach. There was no harm in splitting up the shower into two halves; 15 minutes before CQC to rinse the night away, and 15 minutes after to ready for the day ahead.

With a plan in mind, Charles began to undress. First the wristwatch, carefully laid on the polished wood of the desk. Next the suit jacket, folded and draped over the back of the leather office chair. Then the necktie. The glasses. In a way the removal of each item felt like the lifting of a burden, the stripping of his manager's costume, the unbecoming of Charles Foster Ofdensen, CFO and manager of Dethklok until nothing remained. Some nights Charles felt proud of the nothingness underneath the exterior, the proof of just how much he'd endured, how much he'd sacrificed to erase all vestiges of the man he'd been before to become the man he was now. But tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight the nothingness seemed a vast expanse, a gaping reminder of how much he stood to lose should he fail. Should Dethklok cease to exist, so too would the greatest part of himself.

 _The greater the risk, the greater the return._ Charles knew that the phrase was supposed to imply reward, but as he turned it over in his mind the idea of any sort of risk ending on a positive note sounded implausible. Who'd ever heard of taking a good risk, the outcome of which was destined to be favorable? The very word, _risk,_ harbored connotations of sacrifice - a risk was danger, a risk was jeopardy, and the great return? More likely a great and terrible consequence.

This was about the time he'd be reaching for the brandy decanter. Casting aside the thoughts and ignoring the fact that he was supposed to be rationing, Charles downed his first glass in one and immediately poured a generous second. Tokyo be damned, there were other expenditures in the budget that could stand to be cut. For instance, the boys had passionately insisted on separate Netflix subscriptions, which was even more absurd considering they nearly always watched the same things together, save perhaps William's more artsy Civil War docs. That right there was what, $30 a month they could be saving? $40? Compared to the multi-million dollar investment in Tokyo's infrastructure it didn't seem like much, but it was a start, and finance was all relative, anyway. Charles was fairly certain that these drinks, a third glass, couldn't cost more than $40, so by cancelling the four unnecessary subscriptions they were as good as paid for. That alone was enough to convince him that - in the grand scheme of things - a third glass was inconsequential, and thus he poured it. His first sip was interrupted moments later by a hammering at the door.

_**BOOM BOOM BOOM.** _

Charles sprang back from the desk, nearly dropping his brandy as he swiveled to face the closed door to his bedroom. A surprise visitor. Surely no intruder would waste time knocking, and no Klokateer had the stones to be so inconsiderate, so one of the boys? He wracked his brain; it couldn't be William or Pickles. With no sense of boundaries either one of them would have barged right in. Nor could it be Skwisgaar who never, _ever_ deliberately sought Charles out. And not Toki, whose familiar knock was light and skippy like a little heartbeat. Leaving Nathan, the man who used the ham of his fist to pound on doors like a battering ram rather than his knuckles like a normal person.

Charles scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He didn't have the stamina for this - nor the sobriety, if he was being completely honest with himself. Not without time to recharge, or at the very least time to take the shower he so desperately needed. Yet as much as he'd like to leave the door unanswered, the CFO understood he only had seconds before the frontman let himself in, and tried to use them to his advantage. Resignedly, he abandoned his brandy, refastened the uppermost buttons on his dress shirt and tucked the ends back into the waist of his still-belted slacks. His back popped as he drew himself to full height, but the effect was temporary and his shoulders soon sagged under the weight of the wine from dinner. And the after-dinner champagne. And the brandy. 

"Come in."

The door opened slowly, tentatively, a good sign. After the aggressive knock, he'd half expected Nathan to whip through the entrance like a tornado, hellbent on destroying anything he could get his hands on. Instead the young man stood forlornly outside the threshold, wet black ends of hair dripping toward the carpet to spatter his bare feet. The white hot tub towel around his waist was soaked.

"Something I can do for you, Nathan?" The boys didn't often visit his chambers, and when they did Charles usually made a point of insisting they relocate to his office, so while the looming figure in the doorway wasn't necessarily anything new it was far from ordinary.

"I uh. I wanted to uhmm... say sorry." The vocalist's gravelly voice was pitched lower than usual, and with his head bowed it took Charles a moment to puzzle out exactly what he'd said. So he was sorry. Or was _saying_ sorry, at least, a nit-picky distinction. After over a decade of service to Dethklok, Charles had grown to understand that with Nathan Explosion, effort was often more important than sincerity, and the fact that he'd even left the after party in the front room was a grand gesture in and of itself. Truthfully, he figured Nathan didn't really _feel_ sorry, and didn't even know what he was supposed to be feeling sorry for. The words were merely an extension of the gesture, an effort to keep the peace or absolve him of some of the guilt he was experiencing - most likely the latter. His appearance here, now, was nothing more than an attempt to earn Charles' forgiveness to ease his own conscience.

If he ever needed a sign that the boys knew him too well, this was it. Whether consciously or no, Nathan had sought him out alone and off-guard, a habit he'd likely picked up from the manager himself because it made it _so much harder to be difficult._ It was easy enough to scold the boys in the front room, out in the open, but one-on-one, staring Nathan down, Charles found himself unable to conjure up the fire he'd felt before. Everything he'd been upset about - discovering the email from Katarina Gorgorovich in his inbox, the cut of her neckline at dinner, the indomitable confidence with which she'd invited him into her penthouse suite - suddenly seemed insignificant caught in the dark green shadow of Nathan's gaze. Nothing his boys did, nothing they could ever do would be irremissible in his eyes, this chain of events included. He was their servant, to use or misuse as they saw fit, and if that included using his body to ensure the gears of the Klok continued to run smoothly, so be it. It was a privilege to serve.

A small part of him pointed out that the fact Nathan was experiencing guilt at all had to count for something, and with Dethklok, Charles took what he could get.

"Apology accepted."

Nathan took an uninvited step into the room and let the door fall shut behind him. Without the bright light from the hall the space suddenly seemed over-dark, and with the singer's close proximity came the strong, mealy smell of hops. That explained the brown hot tub water, then - a beer soak. _Thank God._ Charles briefly considered moving the conversation to his office, but as he intended to end it as quickly as possible it didn't seem worth the effort. 

Nathan paused a few feet from his desk. "So… Did you go on the date?"

"We met to finalize a few things for the nail polish," Charles said, shuffling a few papers into piles so as to look occupied. He glanced up to see Nathan's eyes cast around for something to look at, taking in the sparse furnishings before settling eventually on the CFO's partially undressed form behind the desk. Charles had to remind himself that he was technically fully clothed, though without his jacket and tie the younger's gaze felt uncomfortably familiar. As if that weren't enough, he hadn't thought to sit down before Nathan entered, but now that they were both standing it felt like it would be unwise to do so. Taking a seat usually meant Nathan could expect some sort of long talk or lecture, and that was the last impression Charles wanted to leave him with. Not to mention this was his bedroom, and the only possible seat he could offer him in return was the edge of the bed. So Charles continued to stand, and hoped Nathan did not notice if he leaned ever so slightly against the desk for support.

"Did you have to, like, cancel anything else? So you could go?"

"Well, I wasn't able to be at tonight's concert, if that's what you mean."

Nathan looked thoughtful. "Oh. Yeah. Well, that's not important, is it."

Charles slapped a copy of _Decibel Magazine_ on top of a stack. "It is important. It's _very_ important. You saw last week the sort of things that can happen at a concert when I'm not there.”

Forgiveness was one thing to Charles; personally meaningless, trivial, freely given should his boys require it. Tolerance for bad behavior, on the other hand, not so. Though managing Dethklok required turning a blind eye to many things, he could not in good conscience do so when a lucrative business deal was at stake. Under no circumstance would he denounce the severity of the band's actions to assuage their guilt, not when they'd gone so far as to steal his Dethphone and impersonate him in conversation with an executive, potentially sabotaging a deal into which they'd already sunk hundreds of thousands of dollars. Had he failed to catch onto their plot, the partnership with Sinful Glaze could very well have fallen through, with potentially widespread ramifications: economic collapse, fan suicide, escalated global terrorism, all leading toward an inevitable decrease in record sales.

"Well, it's not as if your being there would have prevented the robot from f*cking up," Nathan said petulantly.

Charles frowned. "Maybe not, but I wouldn't have waited so long to initiate emergency protocol, meaning that you all would have been evacuated much sooner. If I'd been there, you wouldn't have inhaled all that smoke. You wouldn't have had to use that oxygen tank."

Nathan scuffed one wet, painted toe over the thick red carpeting, leaving a water darkened trail in its wake. "Yeah, well, I uh... I guess you should have been there."

The manager could usually count on circular arguments from Dethklok, but this had to be one of the quickest turn-arounds he'd ever seen. Either his absence was significant to Nathan or it wasn't, but it couldn't be both. "That's what I'm saying. It's very important that I attend the concerts in case of emergencies, so the fact that the five of you set this dinner up tonight and kept me from the show was - well, frankly, Nathan, it was irresponsible."

The younger’s expression soured. "Well, we didn't actually _want_ you to go. I mean. The plan was, she was supposed to think you had a date tonight, but since you didn't know about it you wouldn't show up. So then she'd think you stood her up, and she'd break up with you. So, really it isn't our fault that you weren't at the show, because you weren't supposed to go on the date in the first place." 

Charles paused with his mouth half open, stumbling in the wake of Nathan’s ‘logic.’ He hadn't yet had time to process everything that had happened that night - or any of it, for that matter - but there was a trigger in the other's statement that warranted exploration. 

"So you all thought that I had a relationship with this woman," he ventured slowly, carefully, "and your first instinct was to sabotage it?"

Charles caught the ripple of muscle through the younger man's biceps as he clenched his fists. A chord struck. "I uh... I guess."

"Well, why is that, Nathan?"

"Because." The frontman's expression screwed up in thought, brow furrowing and nose wrinkling, his jaw unhinged to expose four overlarge canines in a way that resembled some beastly snarl. That was not a happy face. Charles recognized the signs of an impending tantrum and mentally reviewed the furniture in the room. The desk and bed, though not bolted to the floor, would likely be too heavy and cumbersome to lift, but the bureau was as good as gone. Not to mention the lamp, clock, computer, phone, and heaps of painstakingly organized papers. "It... was, uh... Murderface's idea."

"Uh huh. Well, what was his reason?" Charles coaxed. If William was able to get the others on board with one of his foolish ideas, they must have identified with him to some degree. At any rate, he knew Nathan would likely be more comfortable expressing himself if he thought he was speaking on the bassist's behalf.

Nathan continued to scowl as he chose his words. "He thought that you were neglecting the band because of her. Like, with the show, you were with her and then everything went to sh*t, y'know? I mean... you hardly have enough time for the band as it is. So if you had a girlfriend, that would take up even more of your time, and.. put us in... danger." He shook his head, as though unhappy with the direction his sentence had taken. "And I mean, that doesn't matter, I mean it does, but that's not... You never just have time to hang out and pal around with us, and like, it _sucks._ God... Just, like, if you were dating her, if you _are_ dating her, it's just going to make it so you're never around. Not that you're ever really around, anyway. But. God, I don't know. _F*ck."_

They had entered dangerous territory. Even the faintest attempt to access his emotions could cause Nathan great distress, and judging by the ball of his fists and the muscle jumping in his jaw they were quickly approaching the limit. The last thing - the _absolute last thing_ Charles needed right now was for him to blow up. It had already taken a great deal of patience and self-discipline to navigate through the conversation thus far, drained as he was, and if Nathan lost it…

Well, he could kiss his shower goodbye, for one thing.

"I'm sorry if you feel like I haven't been spending enough time with you lately," Charles began, hoping that his use of the word 'you' could be interpreted in either the single or plural depending on what he needed to hear. Somehow Nathan had turned the tables on him in the conversation, and it was now his turn to do the apologizing. He could dwell on how exactly he'd managed to do that later. "You understand that with the current tour and the new album there's been a lot going on, and my intention wasn't to deliberately neglect you."

"But you do admit you've neglected us," Nathan accused, taking a light, predatory step toward the desk. Charles spared a farewell glance toward his lamp.

"I can see how from your perspective it might feel that way, but you have to understand I'm not a mind reader, Nathan." He took a deep breath, raked a hand across his scalp, forcing the neat brown hair out of its signature part. Almost immediately his sluggish fingers attempted to flatten it back down. "This is the first I'm hearing about this in months. If you'd said something sooner, maybe I could have moved some things around-"

"Why should we have to say anything? This is your job, right? Shouldn't you know to like, make time for us?"

"I only know as much as you tell me," Charles said, unable to keep a slight chill from his tone. He dialed it back immediately, and amended, "Besides, lately you've given off the impression that you'd prefer I not, ah, interfere in your life."

"Oh yeah? How so?" Nathan crossed his arms. Charles fought the urge to mirror him. 

"Well, as I recall, this is the first time you've deliberately sought me out since right before Thanksgiving." The black haired man looked blank, so he continued. "You remember, you stopped by my office to make sure your parents wouldn't be dropping in unexpectedly for the holiday. We sent them cruise tickets on your behalf. That was over three months ago, and in that time I don't think I've received a single text or phone call from you, which strikes me as deviating a bit from ah, past behavior."

Charles pressed his lips together, uncomfortably aware of the blood rushing to his reddening ears. Judging by the frontman's stony silence, he figured it wasn't necessary to iterate just how frequent their contact had been prior to Thanksgiving, but that didn't stop him from recalling the specifics in his own head. Hardly a day had gone by in three years that Nathan hadn't sent him some stupid text or other. The inbox on his Dethphone was crammed with the younger man’s ramblings - knock-knock jokes, pictures, quotes, anecdotes, things he found funny, things he thought _Charles_ would find funny, all of them months old by now. A solid wall of received texts, occasionally dotted with a small blue blurb where Charles had felt inclined to respond. A very small, very occasional blue blurb.

It wasn't as though the messages were unwelcome, necessarily. They were nice enough, thoughtful even, and provided Charles with a relatively easy way to keep tabs on he and the boys. A text from Nathan was a good mood indicator, not only of the frontman but of Dethklok as a whole. So when Nathan was happy, the band was happy, and ultimately Charles was happy that they were happy, and all was well. So no, the texts weren't unwelcome, but he knew better than to respond. To create a pretense, and further blur the line between manager and pal he'd been clumsily straddling for years. Up until November, Nathan had seemed content to address the brick wall he'd set up to intercept the attention. At least, he'd never said anything to indicate otherwise, which honestly didn't mean much considering they'd never openly acknowledged the fact that such messages were exchanged in the first place. Charles couldn't help but feel as though he were breaching some unspoken agreement by having said anything at all, and waited uneasily for the man's reply.

"Yeah, well, uh... you haven't sent me anything either," Nathan said at last.

"That's not true. I've called and texted you many times." An embarrassing truth. The grey block of received texts was slowly being eclipsed by one of blue. All unanswered.

"Yeah, but always to talk about the band." 

Charles raised his eyebrows. It was true, the few messages he sent were nearly always band-related. "Is that not, ah, what we should be discussing?" 

Charles Ofdensen was not above acting deliberately obtuse to procure information. Even if it was an odd question, one that Nathan appeared to have no ready answer for. The frontman opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly waiting for Charles to give him an out, but the longer they stood facing each other in the dimly lit silence, the stronger his conviction to receiving an answer became. Had he wanted to, Charles could easily have swept the moment aside, spared them both the discomfort, but some things needed to be done. Like pulling a diseased tooth, or ripping off a bandage, the agony of anticipation was often worse than the agony of the act itself, so the sooner the frontman rejected him, the sooner he could presumably... deal with said rejection. Why not make a bad night into a worse one? No point in spacing it out, letting it fester. A clean break, a clear boundary, that was all he needed to compartmentalize the complexity of Nathan’s emotion into something manageable. Something he could name, at the very least, since no matter how hard he tried he would never be able to control the man’s feelings like he could his schedule. In that regard he was utterly powerless. 

Nathan’s gaze had dropped to the ground, arms still crossed protectively around the barrel of his chest. "We, uh… could just, you know,” he glanced up, pleadingly, as though begging Charles not to make him say the words aloud. The CFO’s returning stare was impassive, a neutral mask. His personal beliefs on their communication were exactly that, personal, and wearing them on his face would only cloud the other’s judgement, sway his decision. Nathan was a selective people-pleaser, and he didn’t put it past the man to cast his own wants aside in favor of meeting Charles’ expectations. Which weren’t so grand, really. If it were up to him, things would return more or less to the way they’d been three months ago, though perhaps with a stronger emphasis on the employer/employee aspect of their relationship. A clearer boundary, but still pals, because he’d rather receive a text each day than none at all for months at a time. A lesson learned. On the other hand, if he'd misinterpreted Nathan's tolerance for fondness that was entirely his own fault, and should he prefer to curtail any sort of amity in favor of professionalism, that would be fine too. Not ideal, but still fine. In a way it would be a relief just to be put back in his place, because he had never intended to overstep his role to begin with. Truthfully Charles couldn’t say which way the frontman leaned - his stammering certainly wasn’t giving anything away, and thus he waited warily as Nathan grimaced and uttered the final words. “We could just talk... like friends.” 

There was an awkward silence, filled by the tiny, muted plops of hot tub water hitting the carpet where it dripped from Nathan's too-tense body. The moment seemed to stretch out forever, a substantial point in time, but for the life of him Charles could not interrupt it. He'd been silent for too long, he could see it in the worry lines creasing Nathan's forehead, the way his fingers twisted hard on the knot of the towel. _Say something._ “Oh. I see." _Something better._ He tried to swallow, Adam's apple bobbing uselessly against the lump in his throat. His airway felt swollen shut, like it did when he was around dogs, or when he was being strangled. He couldn't fully interpret what Nathan's admission might mean. Not now. To do so required a certain emotional capacity that he just didn't possess at three in the morning, but he couldn't very well leave the man standing there on the verge of a meltdown. He had to say something in the affirmative, and quickly. "That's very good, Nathan, I ah, I would like that."

Nathan seemed to process this, rolling the words around in his head, brows furrowed heavier than ever. It was impossible to tell if that had been the right thing to say. But what other option had there been? _'Sorry you feel that way Nathan, but I'm really only interested in having a professional relationship.'_ Charles shuddered to imagine the response such an answer would have gotten, because it certainly would not have been this - this _quiet contemplation._

The wisest option had been to tell the truth. Or a version of it, at least. Because turning back the clock, rekindling the friendship was the best possible outcome Charles could conceive of. Through years of experience he’d come to find that managing the boys was easiest done from the position of comrade than of dictator. Plus, he liked Nathan, liked his friendship, and was glad the young man liked him too. 

It was a long minute before Nathan finally nodded and muttered, "Uh... good. Yeah. Me too." The tension eased slightly from his hulking shoulders, and Charles relaxed reflexively, allowing his muscles to unwind. 

"Well, good." He offered a tight-lipped smile, which Nathan returned. "So, I'm glad we got that all squared away." 

"Yeah."

Perhaps it was the lingering stress from the events of the night, but he continued to anticipate a violent outburst from Nathan and was continuously surprised by the lack thereof. He was probably over-sensitive, too attuned to the man’s presence to let the little things slide. He just had to notice every twitch, every unconscious gesture, for fear that the one thing he overlooked would be the proverbial nail in his coffin. That, or he was projecting his own short fuse onto him. Either way Charles was being unfair, and felt keenly the pangs of conscience. 

"Alright then." He glanced at the clock. 3:45. Still enough time to take care of things before CQC, so long as Nathan was truly done with him and ready to move along. Which, judging by his stock-still frame opposite the desk, he was not. "Is there ah, anything else...?"

"No." The singer shifted from foot to foot. "Well, yeah, actually, yeah. There is. You remember how you uh, said to think of something for us to do? Um, together?"

"I remember."

Nathan picked at the towel knot at his waist, eyes on the floor. "Well, I was thinking we could just... go hunting. Sometime. Like, maybe go up to Quebec for a couple days, y'know, camp out. Not the other guys though, they don't uh, like to... camp."

"That sounds just fine. Let's plan for that." Charles said, coming around the desk to walk slowly, pointedly toward the door. As far as pal activities went, hunting with Nathan Explosion was not a bad one. He'd been before, granted with the entirety of Dethklok, and it had been fine. Nathan was a good shot and a quiet hunter, and a few days in the duck blinds was as good a way as any to repair some of the damage that had been done in the last few months. He'd have agreed to a lot worse just to put the whole ordeal behind them.

Nathan unconsciously fell into step beside him. "What about this weekend?"

Charles artfully avoided mentioning the current tour in his reply, conscious of Nathan's ongoing frustration with their packed schedule. "I'll have to check and see what we've got going on the next couple weeks. But if not this weekend then hopefully next." The singer looked hesitant, so he added, "Does that work for you?"

"I guess." They'd reached the door. Charles turned the knob and held it open, but Nathan was hesitating.

"Really, Nathan, I promise to make this happen." He said firmly, hoping that his conviction alone would be enough to convince the man that it was safe to leave for the night, that he wouldn't forget or slide the promise under the rug.

"Okay." Nathan shuffled his feet, but did not advance through the door frame. "And uh, sorry... again, Charles. About tonight."

"Don't mention it."

"Too late," Nathan said, and laughed lightly at his own stupid joke. He was stalling. "But really. I hope the dinner didn't uh, suck too bad. Katarina sort of sounds like an ugly-chick name, but uh, whatever. I hope you at least got laid, y'know, for your trouble." Charles must have blanched, because the next second all traces of humor had vanished from Nathan's face and he was wearing his thinking-frown. "Did you?"

_Oh, no._

They were not about to have this conversation.

"Ah, it was a business meeting, Nathan," Charles evaded, voice surprisingly level as he tugged the bedroom door open wider.

"No, it wasn't. It was dinner at that stupid lounge."

"Not all business meetings happen in offices. People have to eat sometime." He waved offhandedly and placed a careful palm against Nathan's shoulder, attempting to usher him through the door. It was rigid, and still wet from the dripping hair.

"Don't _patronize_ me," Nathan said, shrugging out from under Charles' touch. The word sounded clumsy on his tongue, uncertain.

"I'm not patronizing you."

"Yes you are. And you're _lying."_

"About what?"

"The date!" His voice was loud, thunderous. "We're the ones who set it up it in the first place, so I think I'd know if it was just some stupid business meeting. It was a f*cking date. Why won't you just admit it?"

"There's nothing to admit, Nathan. I assure you the meeting was strictly professional," Charles said. And it had been. That was the truth, and he'd worked damn hard to make it that way, politely ignoring every signal and interrupting every suggestive thread of conversation in favor of a business related topic. It wasn't until the end of the night that things had, well, gotten out out of hand.

"It's like three in the morning, Charles, just how _'professional'_ was it?" Nathan asked, and Charles bristled at the insinuation. Where was the sudden perceptiveness coming from? And why on Earth did Nathan want to have this conversation? It was bizarre, considering the circumstances. The younger had hardly spoken a word to him in months, barely glanced in his direction and now he was spilling his guts in the most uncomfortably personal conversation they'd had in a decade or more, and he was inexplicably _angry._ In some small way he could understand Nathan's interest in being friends, he could understand his desire to have a weekend away to pal around together, he could even understand his intrusive curiosity about the outcome of the dinner. What he could not understand was this fury, rolling off the man in waves.

"There were a lot of things to finalize." Charles managed to school his expression into something halfway neutral, but it was clear the frontman wasn't buying it. Before he had a chance to react, Nathan's hand shot out to grip the door frame, blocking Charles from the hall. He didn't like that. Oh, he did not like that at all. The CFO had never been cornered in his own bedroom before, never been trapped in a situation with an aggressor he couldn't attack. It wasn't like he could just break the man's arm and move past him. This was Nathan Explosion, Dethklok frontman, billionaire super power, _friend._

"Bullshi*t." Nathan said, upper lip curled back to reveal big, white teeth. His face was close, and his eyes raked over Charles' form as if it were something entirely new to him, something he'd like to crush. "You went on a f*cking date with this chick, and then you f*cked her."

Charles didn't trust himself to move, jammed as he was in the corner of the doorway. His body was on involuntary red alert, muscles bunched and blood pumping, ready at the slightest provocation to snap a neck - Nathan's neck, inches from his trembling hands. The smallest movement, even just parting his lips to respond could jeopardize the tenuous handle he had over his self-control.

Nathan seemed to take his silence as an admission, and the next second he was spluttering. "That's just - That's - There's - Are you even _allowed_ to do that? Shouldn't there be something in your contract that makes it so you can't? That's f*cking... God I can't even _think_ about that." His voice had reached the upper limits of its volume, and Charles winced against the noise as his temple gave a throb of complaint.

This entire encounter was giving him whiplash. The sulking, the near-tantrum, the reconciliation, the anger. One moment Nathan was expressing hopes that he'd slept with this woman, and the next he was irate at the very thought. If he really thought about it (and Charles really tried to think it out, look at it from Nathan’s perspective), there was a distinct difference between pondering something in the abstract and having the reality of it dangled in front of your nose. Not that he was _dangling_ anything in front of anyone; he'd been meticulous in redressing, ensuring that no physical sign existed of having done anything other than attend dinner. No lipstick on the collar, no perfume. But still, he supposed that the concept of the CFO having a personal life outside of Dethklok was one thing to Nathan, while the reality of him having just returned from a date with a woman was quite another. It was something he'd experienced himself, God only knew how many times. Knowing the boys had brought women into Mordhaus after an evening out was entirely different than stumbling upon one of them in the act.

So Charles could forgive him this, because he understood, because he'd walked in on Nathan too many times not to.

"There's nothing in the ah, contract." Charles said finally. He placed one hand on Nathan's forearm, gripping it in what he hoped was a reassuring way, or at the very least non-threatening, and continued. "I can see that you're upset, and I understand that. It's been a long day. Why don't we talk about this tomorrow?" The muscles flexed under his fingers.

"No - f*ck that, we can talk about it now. How is there nothing about this in the contract? This is f*cking bullsh*t, Charles."

He took a steadying breath, pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and his fingers touched smooth skin - the wire rim of his glasses was missing. Had he forgotten them this whole time?. "Well, this isn’t something people normally include in management contracts. Personal relationships, ah, dating, what have you. It’s just not relevant.” He explained.

Nathan snorted. "Well, it seems pretty relevant right now, considering she’s our business partner. Jesus, that’s gotta be against the law or something. Can you go to jail for this?"

Charles blinked slowly. "I'm not following you. Are you wanting to add a clause to my contract that forbids relationships with business partners, or are you wanting to have me arrested?"

"I don't know. Both? I don't know! This is... _so messed up._ It’s _disgusting_." Nathan’s fingers dug so hard into the wood of the door frame that Charles squinted, prepared for it to shatter and fling splinters into his face. His other hand was a curled fist, knuckles popped white against the skin, and for a moment he imagined it colliding with his face, splitting his lip and knocking his two front teeth down the back of his throat. His guts twisted at the thought, the knowledge that should Nathan attack he was powerless to stop it, that he’d let the man kill him before he himself would strike the lethal blow. 

There were crescent marks from his nails in the wood now. Charles’ eyes flashed from his face to his fingers and back again, watching the man’s mouth curl decidedly around a question. Nathan’s gaze was coal-black, and scorched like hellfire as he growled:

"Where's your contract, Charles?"

An ice cold trickle ran down his spine, slipped into the pit of his stomach. He could remember a handful of times in over ten years of service the boys had asked to see his contract, but never under circumstances such as this. It was typically over something trifling, unimportant, something they never got around to actually amending because none of them cared enough. _Charles_ didn’t care enough. But this. This was different. It was painfully, painfully clear that Nathan cared a great deal about this, and for the briefest moment Charles couldn’t help but feel deserving of punishment, knowing he’d done something unbecoming of his position. He felt like an insect under a magnifying glass, flaws thrown into sharp relief. Inhuman - or rather _too_ human, more human than he'd like. And here was Nathan to bear witness and pass judgement, Nathan who held great power in his hands, the power to terminate his contract should Charles not withstand this scrutiny. He thought fleetingly of the chasm of his life without Dethklok, of the emptiness under the managerial exterior, of catastrophic loss and sacrifice with no reward, and said, "I don't have it."

"What do you mean you don't have it?"

"It's not here, on the helicopter. I have a copy at Mordhaus - "

"Then have someone bring it.” Nathan said. “We can wait." 

When Charles made no move to do so, Nathan lost his patience and suddenly snatched the CFO’s wrist, bringing it close to his face for examination. Just under his hooked nose, near enough for Charles to feel the heat of his snorting breath with every exhale on his skin. “Where’s your watch?” He demanded. Charles blinked and said nothing. The watch he used to communicate with the Klokateers. He’d removed it earlier, set it on the desk. Nathan's grip on his arm was hard, hard enough to bruise, and it jerked him cold from the bleak spiral of his thoughts. This was inexcusable. He'd been tolerant till now - but to actually touch him, to breach that physical barrier, Nathan had crossed so far over the line he'd lost sight of it. Charles tore his arm stiffly from the man's grasp and forced it mechanically to his side.

" _That's enough_ ,” he said sharply, his voice a hard line. Nathan flinched as though he'd reached out and smacked him. “Now, I want you to listen to me carefully. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this behavior is _unacceptable._ If you want to have a rational conversation about what’s bothering you, we can, but if you can’t calm down I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Now. I get that you're upset because I met with Ms. Gorgorovich.”

“No, I’m pissed off because you f*cked her.” Nathan spat.

Charles ground his teeth. Was lying by omission still lying? “This is the last time I’ll say this Nathan. I am not in a relationship with this woman. I have no intention of ever seeing her again in my life. Are we clear?”

“Sure, we’re clear." Nathan shrugged. "Crystal clear. But I want it in writing. And not just her. _Anyone._ Business partners, random chicks off the street, nobody. Dethklok should be your number one priority, right?" 

"Dethklok is my number one priority," Charles returned coldly.

"Well then this should be no problem for you. I want this in your contract, Charles. Tonight."

Charles took a deep breath, steeled himself. If Nathan was determined to call him into question, he was more than willing to prove himself. The General could be rescheduled. He’d get the contract, he’d tear into it tonight, if that's what it took. They could have his bodily autonomy, he didn’t want it - didn't _need it._ "I'm not usually one for renegotiating contracts at three in the morning, b - "

A clattering of footsteps down the hall caught his attention, and Charles stopped abruptly. If their conversation had ever been private it wasn't now, as Pickles, Murderface, Skwisgaar and Toki dashed into view, out of breath and clutching hot tub towels around their waists. The frantic look in their eyes gave way to embarrassment as they took in Nathan's posture, arm blocking the door frame and Charles standing in his space, breath rapid fire and cheeks flushed with fury. Charles watched their eyes flicker between their two faces and the arm a few times before Nathan had the sense to drop it.

"We uh... heard some... screaming," Pickles panted, glancing sidelong at the other boys.

"Yeah. Uh... sounded like Nathans. So we comes to see..." Skwisgaar trailed off while the others nodded.

"Everything's fine. Nathan just stopped by for a quick chat. We didn't mean to disturb you." Charles said smoothly, counting on the silent figure at his side to back him up, which he realized a little too late he most certainly could _not_ count on. Nothing was stopping Nathan from exposing his assumption to the others and unnecessarily drawing them into the argument. Not if he wanted to. Charles refrained from glancing at him and prayed he had the decency to keep quiet.

"Uh. Yeah." Nathan grunted after a long pause, and without another word he shoved off from the door frame and disappeared down the hall. The space where he'd stood was electrified, almost tangible with the strength of the energy he'd left behind, and it raised the hairs on the back of Charles' neck. The CFO was loathe to leave anything unresolved, particularly something as important as this. The boys tended to behave unpredictably when they were upset, and the probability of Nathan doing something irrational and foolish had just shot up by about 500%, along with Charles' stress level. He'd have to put extra Klokateers on him until they could speak again. 

Nathan was completely out of sight before the boys turned their eyes back to Charles, waiting for an explanation that would not come. His aching brain couldn't think of one, and if it could he still would have said nothing, because speaking would only serve to prolong the interaction. And he was suddenly very, very tired. "Ah, so," he spared them a cursory glance, distractedly checking for anything that might warrant his immediate attention, like an open wound or a dead body. Nothing stuck out, other than their gaping mouths and shared looks of curious confusion.

"With that said, goodnight." Charles began closing the door as protests abruptly rose in the hallway.

"But-"

"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, gentlemen. Goodnight." The door shut and the lock clicked, and the voices outside quickly fell silent. Charles sunk against the frame with a heavy sigh and massaged his temples. 

Well. So much for that shower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Kudos/Comments greatly appreciated!


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